DRY-FLY MEDITATIONS 93 



further consideration shows that there is not a rise on 

 all the shallow, except from the tiny trout that feed all 

 day just below the bridge. At this bitter moment of 

 realization the rain sees its opportunity, and the edge 

 of that storm which has been brewing all day breaks 

 without warning. A hurried flight back to the hedge 

 saves a complete drenching, but when the downpour is 

 over half an hour later, there is an uneasy dampness 

 about the shoulders. 



No matter; the storm is gone by, and the west is 

 brightening for sunset. Presently the big sedges will 

 be coming out, and careful casting into the lane of 

 afterglow will surely have its reward. Meanwhile on 

 the shallows there is a real rise from a real fish, 

 followed by another. He feeds at last. A ginger quill, 

 and he comes short. A red quill, and he comes short. 

 Other flies, and he comes not at all. He feeds no 

 more. His fellows do not feed at all, and there are no 

 more rises on the shallow. It is 7 p.m., so now for the 

 upper water, the sedge, and that monster that broke 

 two Mayfly casts. He lies at a corner outside the 

 rushes, and comes up with a bang two or three times 

 every likely evening. He is quite a possibility. But 

 what is the matter with the river ? It rises, surely ; 

 yes, and it has a disordered appearance. Drift-weeds, 

 masses of them, obscure its surface ; there is scarcely 

 room for a floating fly between. It is the sudden rise 

 of the water that has moved this debris from its resting 

 places, and fully half an hour must elapse before the 

 surface is clear again. However, it is still early for the 

 sedge, and horror ! there in the distance is a white 

 something rising above the banks. It is the mist, a 



