172 Sporting ^Sketches in Pen and Pencil 



The next reach is a quiet bit, comparatively still, with hoUow banks. 

 Here the river ran through pleasant meads, with here and there a huge 

 symmetrical oak that was perhaps a stout sapling when the Wars of 

 the Roses drenched the land with blood and tears ; and at their feet aU 

 in good season, the 



Daisies pied and violets blue, 



And ladies' smocks all silver white, 

 Witli cuckoo buds of yellow hue, 



Do paint the meadows with delight. 



Here, under deep mossy banks, the river murmured and eddied quietly, 

 while a short mile on perhaps it runs through a steep ravine, with 

 rocky sides and high o'er-arching trees, with a course oft fretted by big 

 stones and rugged rocks. Setting fishing aside, it was a charming ramble. 



So far the day had been somewhat sunny, but within the last ten 

 minutes or so the sun had gone in, and the air was colder. Not a fish 

 that could be seen was moving. It did not look promising to the 

 uninstructed eye. But Piscator hummed a bar or two of " Nil 

 desperandum." " We shan't get many, but we may get a few," and 

 our friend pitched his flies close under the banks on either side, and 

 searched them thoroughly. It wasn't long before a little dimple under 

 a bush on the far side, as if a water drop had fallen on the surface, 

 was followed by a gentle strike ; and a bending rod once more told its 

 tale, and a nice three-quarters fish, after the usual amount of running 

 and tumbling, came to net and joined his comrades; and shortly after a 

 pounder foUowed suit. Then he had a scrape and a break away, and 

 after that another three-quarter pound fish turned his tail up. 



By the time we get to the end of this stretch the fish have gone 

 off, so we sit down and eat a sandwich, and chat and smoke for half 

 an hour or so, as is the wont of fishermen during the slack noontide. 

 Autumn tints begin to show themselves. Busset is creeping onward like 

 old age; we have had our spring, our summer has almost waned and 

 winter is coming ; but stiU the angler's time — so as he can be by the 

 river— is not all barren and joyless; and even memory counts for 

 a considerable something. 



