ON A STORM-SWEPT PIKE POOL 247 



this seems a solemn thought, and, pondering over my 

 records, I begin to wonder whether I too may not 

 become an object of suspicion in the eyes of the brother- 

 hood. Nearly every winter, at any rate, whenever I 

 have been fishing I have had wretched weather, and in 

 more than one instance a friend persuaded out by me 

 has suffered for it. The occasion, however, of which I 

 write found me alone. The angler who was to have 

 been my companion prophesied evil from afar, talked 

 about rheumatism, and stayed wisely at home. But I 

 had heard of a big pike, and was reckless ; nor did I 

 appreciate my friend's point of view, until the first 

 morning of fishing, when we reached the water-side 

 soon after ten, and C., the keeper, informed me, in a 

 matter-of-fact tone, that he was wet through already. 

 Half an hour later I was able to return the compli- 

 ment, and half an hour after that we gave it up and fled. 

 It will take me a long time to forget the cold of that 

 north-easter and furious rain and the discomfort of the 

 wet punt on the shelterless pool. 



It is a curious piece of water formed in the valley of, 

 and a few hundred yards away from, a famous trout 

 stream by old-time excavation in quest of peat. 

 Shallow, fringed with tall reeds (in summer, I believe, 

 almost overgrown with them), and connected with the 

 river by a drain at each end, it used in days gone by to 

 form a rare stock-pond for keeping the trout stream 

 well supplied with pike. But now strong gratings 

 restrain esox within his own borders, and fario has 

 many enemies the less, while the pike-fisher has an 

 interesting preserve sacred to himself. It is none the 

 less interesting because its shallowness and clearness 



