206 AN OPEN CREEL 



It fell quite a yard short, but that mattered little. 

 Round he came sharply to see what had happened, 

 steadily he swam up to the bluebottle, boldly he 

 opened his mouth, and then I drank indeed the delight 

 of battle. Three pounds he weighed all but an ounce, 

 which doesn't matter, and for quite a time I fondly 

 preserved his skin, adequately peppered and salted, as 

 I thought, but in the end elders and betters intervened 

 with forcible remarks about nuisances. So I was left 

 with his memory only, of which nobody could rob me. 

 From that day I have revered the chub, and so 

 often as the hot summer days come round (there are 

 not so many of them as there were when Plancus 

 was Consul), so often do I bethink me of the sunlit 

 waters, the cool willow shades, the fresh scent of 

 waterweeds from the weir, the hum of bees, and, 

 above all, the dark forms lying on the surface ready 

 for the fly. Some there are who will give you hard 

 words concerning the chub, having, maybe, hooked 

 him on Wye just in the V of the currents where 

 they fondly expected a salmon, having perchance 

 frayed the gossamer trout-cast all to tatters in keep- 

 ing his brute strength out of the roots, and having 

 disturbed twenty good yards of water to boot. But 

 these unfortunates (I grant them the title) have en- 

 countered cheven out of his proper sphere, and their 

 sympathies are warped thereby. Heed them not, but 

 seek him in his rightful rivers, slow-flowing, rush-lined, 

 lily-crowned, girt with willows and rich pastures ; take 

 with you your stoutest single-handed fly rod, strong 

 gut, and big palmer flies, or coachman, alder, zulu 

 it matters little so the mouthful be big and so it have 



