XX IN PRAISE OF CHUB *> o ^ 



MUCH water has eddied under the bridges, foamed 

 over the weirs, and lost itself in the Severn sea 

 since first I came under the spell. But the water 

 must flow longer and stronger yet to wash away 

 recollection of that solemn time. It was high summer 

 on Shakespeare's stream, and afternoon poetically, 

 it was always afternoon in a lotus-land where white 

 canvas alone shut out the stars of night, but on 

 this occasion prosaically also, for luncheon was over 

 and done with when from afar I first espied logger- 

 head basking at ease just outside the spreading willow. 

 No novice was I at the sport of angling, but had taken 

 as many brave fish as most boys of my years, with 

 now and again a pounder among them, while I boasted 

 acquaintance with a veteran angler who had that 

 summer slain a cheven of full two pounds. But here 

 was something which passed my experience a chub 

 of unparalleled magnitude in a land where the com- 

 munity spoke with respect of pounders. He had 

 length, breadth, and dignity ; he lay at the surface 

 an imposing bulk, and for a while I stood spellbound. 

 Then the natural boy asserted itself, and sought a 

 plan of campaign. Now you must know that cheven 



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