DRY-FLY MEDITATIONS 75 



nigh fall from the tables. I had often observed the 

 water below the bridge from the bridge. Many a 

 hearty trout fed there under the trees, but never an 

 angler in those days seemed to ply his craft, or lack of 

 it, on the commodious, downward-sloping bank. There 

 was only about a hundred yards of this desirable water ; 

 below could be seen a mill obscured by bushes, and 

 below that was mystery more hearty trout probably, 

 with gushing mill-tails and dark pools. I had often 

 speculated on these things, and coveted furiously my 

 neighbour's goods, depreciating the straight half-miles 

 and the curly corner that needed no speculation and 

 held no mystery. 



And on this day I turned my back on the known, and 

 started for the unknown. By 9.30 a.m. I was kneeling 

 on the grassy bank of the water below the bridge, 

 watching a rising trout. There was no Mayfly yet, so 

 I offered him a Wickham. I do not think he could 

 ever have seen one before, so impressed was he, and so 

 eagerly did he rise. He weighed three-quarters of a 

 pound, and I returned him. I have never been quite 

 sure why, because he was the first fish of the day, and 

 sizeable as they went in that river ; but I think I was 

 ashamed to kill a trout which had never seen a Wick- 

 ham before. Above the bridge the fish could have told 

 me the name of him who tied it which I did not know 

 myself. After this I found another trout which had 

 never seen a Wickham before, and returned him, too. 

 Then I hooked and lost one, and set off to explore down 

 behind the mill. 



Here, as I had imagined, was gushing water, and 

 here were dark pools, two of them. In the mill-pool, 



