THE FLY QUESTION 97 



was at the end of April, and we had been having 

 a grievous time owing to the wintry weather and 

 lack of fly. Our united catches had for some days 

 barely found us in breakfast, and we had got into 

 the habit of going out each morning without any 

 hope of better things. One morning I started thus 

 handicapped (and more, for I was afflicted with a 

 chill as well), and flogged aimlessly downstream 

 with the usual assortment of flies and the usual lack 

 of result. Then something induced me to put on 

 the Bottle-brush. I have always thought of it as 

 the Bottle-brush because it has no other name and 

 deserves none — had rather; it is now no more. 

 This creature was two sizes larger than anything 

 else in my book and was an unpleasing brown thing 

 with an inordinate quantity of stiff stark hackle 

 and no wings. It was exactly like a bottle-brush 

 in shape. Supposed to be a wet-fly it would have 

 needed a small paternoster lead to make it sink. 

 I never met with a pattern I disliked more on sight. 

 Well, I dragged this thing about the river in a half- 

 hearted way, and presently a trout hurled himself 

 upon it. I basketed him, and soon afterwards 

 another, and more followed until I had amassed 

 sixteen of excellent size. Then the disintegration 

 of the bottle-brush was complete — it was badly 

 tied as well as horrible in appearance — and there- 

 after no more could be done. But I had the best 



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