A YORKSHIRE BECK 25 



rises on the high moor of the North Riding, trickles 

 among heather and over slabs of rock for a while, and 

 then disappears for a mile or two in a continuous 

 cavern of foliage. You can hear it readily when you 

 walk that way, and its music is sweet ; but to see it 

 you must take pains, peering round the bole of a tree 

 or through the network of branches and twigs. To 

 get a worm into it well, neither you nor I can do 

 that. Maecenas can, but then he is a friend of the 

 arts, and, moreover, the broad acres through which 

 Ghyll Beck flows are his, so I count it proper that he 

 should be able to do this thing, without praying in aid 

 that natural genius for beck-fishing which he modestly 

 disclaims. 



Maecenas had given me fair warning as to the nature 

 of the stream, and had said that the worm was the 

 only thing. But when did your dry-fly man ever pay 

 heed to good advice ? It is the habit of human nature 

 to trust to the individual star, and I hoped to find an 

 open space or so where the dry fly was bound to score. 

 Also, dutifully regarding a pounder as barely sizable, I 

 scarcely proposed to do more than conduct an experi- 

 ment, just retaining a dozen or so of the better fish 

 that the house-party might have trout to breakfast. 



In this lofty state of mind I took my ten-foot split- 

 cane rod, telescopic landing-net, and japanned box 

 (the fly-book was in a very secret pocket) down to the 

 beck, "just to see what the dry fly would do there." 

 It was not a promising day ; heavy mist hung over the 

 moor-tops, and a drizzling rain swept the valley on 

 a cold wind. However, little trout that had never 

 seen a dry fly would not omit to rush at it for trivial 



