46 AN OPEN CREEL 



springs up from nowhere to vex your soul by looking 

 over the bridge and informing you that there is " a big 

 un " down there. Of course there is. It is always 

 there. It was there before the small boy was born, 

 and you were trying for it then, too. It is possible to 

 ignore the small boy, but your casting is erratic 

 and irritable. Then a girl and an athletic young 

 fellow come along the road, and of course stop to 

 watch you. She says something of which you can 

 distinguish two words, " fishing . . . patience," and he 

 smiles in a superior manner. Really, the ignorance 

 and folly of people is almost past bearing. You might 

 forgive the girl the injury she is doing you by waving 

 her white sunshade above your fish, but when she 

 insults you as well you yearn for vengeance. You 

 utter a silent prayer that she may marry that very 

 objectionable young man and be smiled at like that 

 across the breakfast-table. Meanwhile, you go on 

 doggedly trying to put your fly where you want it over 

 the nose of the big trout. After many futile efforts you 

 unexpectedly succeed ; there is a rise, a boil, a glimpse 

 of a broad yellow side turning in the water, a momen- 

 tary thrill from the rod-top, and your fly comes back 

 to you. Yes, of course, the point of the hook is gone, 

 knocked off by being dashed against the bridge. You 

 might have known that it would be so. " 'E's lost 

 'im," announces the small boy cheerfully, as one who 

 has made a pleasing discovery. 



So it goes on all day, and towards sunset, when, some- 

 what refreshed and strengthened by a cup of tea, you 

 are hopefully awaiting the evening rise, a finish is added 

 to the day's proceedings by a blanket of white mist, 





