IN A WELSH VALLEY 183 



even free my left hand. So in due course the trout 

 kicked himself off, leaving me alone with the wind 

 and the rain and the conviction that all was over. 

 I do not wish to blame Caradoc in any way — after 

 all, he had kindly lent me the garment, and that it 

 failed to keep the rain out was not his fault — but 

 I do blame the button. Anglers ought to tie 

 themselves together with tapes or string, not 

 imperil their immortal souls by the use of buttons. 

 The chub also lost me a fine trout the day before 

 by swinging about my legs and nearly upsetting me 

 at the critical moment. I had better explain the 

 chub. There were nine of them, weighing from 

 about three-quarters of a pound to a pound and 

 a half, and they were the fruits of an amusing hour 

 or so at the pool by the wall. Tlie custom of the 

 river is, I believe, to kill chub in the most violent 

 manner possible, and then to kick them about the 

 landscape, cursing as you kick. Truly chub are not 

 wanted in a small trout stream, but I have an 

 affection for those despised fisli, and besides nine 

 of them made a brave show and might be valued 

 by some poor body. So, since they were too big 

 and many for my little creel, I slung them on a 

 leather bootlace presented to me for other purposes 

 by the schoolmaster, and slung that to the landing- 

 net sling. An uncommon nuisance they were, 

 eleven or twelve pounds of them a-dangle, and as 



