26 AN OPEN CREEL 



reasons of that kind. As I hastened downhill to the 

 beck I was, on the whole, a very creditable dry-fly 

 man, serenely confident in science and split wings. 



I reached the beck and looked at it, japanned box in 

 hand. The survey made me thoughtful. Here was no 

 placid stream flowing between rushes ; here were no 

 Ephemeridse, no Phryganidse, no Coleoptera ; here 

 was no stout fario sucking in these fine families. 

 Here, in fact, was no place for the dry fly, in this tiny 

 trickle flowing securely under bushes at the bottom of 

 the ravine between the two precipices that it called its 

 banks. In that instant I forswore the dry fly, put 

 away the japanned box, and sought the fly-book. Two 

 hackle flies a foot apart, fished wet, would be the thing 

 for this water, and I put them on. All being ready, 

 I spent half an hour in searching for a place where I 

 could introduce them to the stream. I only succeeded 

 in getting the tail-fly on once, and that was by dibbling 

 over a bush. A trout took it, and was twitched out 

 a fish of about three inches. By this time I was so 

 little of a dry-fly man that I regretted my generosity 

 the moment I had returned him. After that I lost 

 both my flies in a tree, and paused to consider. 



The method I was employing was obviously useless. 

 A twenty-foot salmon rod would have suited the water 

 no worse than the weapon I was using, and any more 

 dibbling was out of the question in such a wind. The 

 only chance was a willow wand plied from the bed 

 of the stream, and a single fly switched up into the 

 stickles. After deliberation, I took off the cast, wound 

 up the line, and unshipped the butt of the rod. Then 

 I threaded the line though the rings of the two upper 



