368 OUTDOOR LIFE IN ENGLAND 



the gaff is in him and he is flopping and struggling 

 on the bank, taking the gillie all his time to hold 

 him while he deals him his death-blow on the 

 head. There he lies, a beautiful clean-run fish 

 of twenty-five pounds' weight, and with the sea- 

 lice still adhering to his sides. 



And we ourselves are we cold? No! steaming 

 and quivering with excitement, and the long con- 

 tinued strain. This is sport worth living for, sport 

 which can never pall, and which more than compen- 

 sates for hours, perhaps days, of unsuccessful toil. 



A few weeks later. The elm- trees are already 

 half clothed with tender green ; the oak and 

 the ash are competing for the honour of first 

 leaves, and we stand beside some Southern trout- 

 stream, this time armed with but a slender rod 

 and line compared to those with which we fought 

 and captured the big fish : for now we have to 

 deal with a quarry of lesser size, though one 

 which demands even more art and skill to 

 capture. The alder-flies are hatching out, and 

 here and there the smaller fry have already 

 opened the ball. One by one the larger fish 

 work up the shallows, now and again snapping at 

 a fly as they make their way to their accustomed 

 feeding-places. Under the sedges, on the far 

 side of the stream, a slight circle, a mere bubble, 

 perhaps, marks the spot where some more wary 

 veteran is quietly taking toll of the flies, as they 

 come sailing and fluttering down on the surface 

 of the water. Let us leave him in peace for a 



