278 AN OPEN CREEL 



These memories have pleasure in them, but perhaps 

 it is the little bridges which appeal to one most, and 

 especially little bridges over little trout-streams. Some 

 of them have witnessed great triumph, as that wooden 

 bridge which sheltered a bright two-pounder, fat as 

 butter even in April, and willing to take a fly on the 

 very coldest day of that icy month. Others have pre- 

 sided over unspeakable misfortunes, as that two-span 

 brick bridge which in May provided a mad rise of trout, 

 and then broke the point of the hook, so that the 

 angler rose fish after fish, yet caught nothing. There 

 are bridges which tantalize the very soul. One carries 

 a road over a stream so small that you would hardly 

 expect a trout over a pound in it. Yet lean over its 

 parapet awhile. Below you is a little pool of slack 

 water on the edge of the trickle which represents the 

 current. It is some ten inches deep, and is tenanted 

 by a big shoal of minnows. Presently a wave disturbs 

 it, the minnows rush hither and thither, and just under 

 the bridge is heard a tremendous splash. You cannot 

 possibly cast a fly under the bridge, and if you float a 

 worm down (there are anglers who do so) you are 

 morally certain to lose your tackle in the piles which 

 have been ingeniously disposed here and there. Still, 

 the audacious succeed sometimes, and one morning a 

 man got four trout here weighing sixteen pounds. 



Even smaller is the stream spanned by the next 

 bridge, a tiny burn trickling down from the moors. 

 There are no four-pounders here, but there are 

 memories quite as precious. The stream falls over a 

 step at the top of the bridge into a miniature pot just 

 below it, and then cascades into a little pool. Out of 



