Grayling Fishing. 



my old chum Chalkley, would ask, " Is the Teme called the Teme because 

 it teems with grayling, or the Lug the Lug because you can lug 'em out 

 of it till you are tired." " Froh pudor !" what vile habit is this ? My old 

 friend there in the knickers and landing net would tell you that, however 

 much they may teem, you cannot lug them out till you have hooked them ; 

 and therein lies the gist of the matter. Mark you how skilfully he casts 

 his willow fly and red tag across the head of that lovely Derbyshire 

 rapid while we sit down on the shore and watch him. See how he searches 

 every inch of the water across close under the opposite bank, and now 

 rolling down stream. Ha ! what a lovely rise ! And see his arching 

 rod proclaims a victim to his bow and steel. Head over heels the prey 

 tumbles down the stream, as is the wont of grayling. Now he makes a 

 slight rush as he sees the extended net, but he will never rush again; 

 round, round he swings towards the bank, on to which our friend steps 

 gingerly. Slowly now — no hurry — for all his weight is on the line, and 

 he is not like your logger-headed chub, a leathern-mouthed fish, but, 

 like Tom Pinch's steak, he " must be humoured, not drove," and our friend 

 is an adept in the art, for somehow his prey rolls round, and the net 

 is unobtrusively under him at the first good chance, and a bonny twelve- 

 inch grayling flutters on the green sward. 



The trout is king of the stream, but the grayling is queen. How 

 lovely he is ! What brilliant silver sides, bedropped with black diamonds ! 

 How gorgeous that great purple and tortoiseshell dorsal fin ! "What a 

 graceful form ! What oriental eyes, and how he justifies his name, 

 " Thymallus," and what a juicy cut that will be along the lateral line 

 to-morrow at breakfast. A tap on the head, and he is consigned to his 

 wicker prison, while our friend, carefully scanning his fly to see that 

 hook and gut are as they should be, blows out the feathers, steps softly 

 into the stream again, and, with a lightsome hoist, sends his brace of 

 persuaders forty feet across the stream, on which they settle like a snow- 

 flake. "There he rose," but no bending rod replies. It was a false 

 move. Again the tempting fare is spread before him, and again he flashes 

 to the surface vainly, and the flies float on intact. Something withholds 

 him, and he seems to scent danger, but cannot forbear to gaze upon it, 



