XXIV WEIR-POOLS ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 



IT has something to do with the liveliness of the 

 falling water, I suspect, that the weir-pool is so 

 beloved of anglers. The open reaches can be, and 

 often are, so dull when fish are out of humour or of 

 doubtful numbers. After watching an undisturbed 

 float, or casting a futile spinning-bait or fly for a 

 number of hours, one is apt to lose heart about the 

 business, and regard the unchanged, yet ever-changing, 

 expanse of water with a jaundiced eye. Why on earth 

 should fish in such monotonous surroundings ever bite, 

 or run, or rise ? Why, indeed, should fish be there at 

 all ? Why should a man be Boeotian enough to try 

 and catch them, making of the practice of angling a 

 mere iteration of purposeless manual exercises? At 

 this point one would be quite likely to pack up and go 

 home, were it not for the sudden remembrance of the 

 weir-pool. Why, yes, of course, there is exactly what 

 one wants : foam, turmoil, eddies, old piles, little com- 

 motions in the distance that look like feeding fish, 

 shoals of minnows close to the camp sheathing, and 

 all the variety that can charm a soul oppressed by too 

 much sameness. So one shoulders the creel and goes 

 thither at once. 



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