362 A FARMER'S YEAR 



the tube is hauled to the surface and emptied of its contents, and 

 the process recommences. When a spring of water has been struck 

 strong enough to fill the narrow bore thus drilled through the 

 chalk and keep it full in spite of any reasonable amount of pump- 

 ing, a pipe will be thrust down the cavity to a convenient depth and 

 connected with the pump. As the London companies lower the 

 level of the water in the moisture-bearing strata, the process described 

 above can of course be repeated till a depth is reached at which it 

 becomes impossible to work the tools. 



This afternoon I went with a friend, who is the honorary secre- 

 tary of a newly formed angling club, to inspect a trout stream in this 

 neighbourhood which has recently been stocked with fish. Never 

 before did I understand how arduous and expensive is this task of 

 converting a coarse-fish river into a trout water. First the common 

 fish, and especially the pike, must be captured, which, as the use 

 of dynamite is illegal, is in itself no easy matter. I forget the num- 

 ber of pike which have already been removed from these few miles 

 of brook, but it is not small. After most of the pike are ex- 

 tracted for it takes years to be rid of them altogether the bed 

 of the stream must be cleaned. Then comes its re-stocking with 

 thousands of young trout bought at a hatchery ; the making of 

 suitable spawning beds by the carting of gravel into the water, or 

 the stirring up and washing of such stone as already exists there ; 

 the sowing of water-weeds suitable to the collection of food such 

 as trout love, and so forth. All these things are necessary if trout- 

 fishing is to be enjoyed in such a stream, yet so much preparation 

 gives a certain artificiality to the final result. 



I am not a great fisherman, for the chance of much of that 

 delightful sport has not come my way, but while my friend and 

 the water-bailiff are discussing the advisability of the destruction of 

 three herons that haunt the stream (poor herons !) my mind 

 wanders back to certain experiences in Iceland when, towards mid- 

 night, the light turned ghastly blue, and for a while was so pale upon 

 the foaming river's face that it became difficult to see the fly dancing 

 in the black eddy of the fosse. Hark ! the scund of whistling wings 



