ARTIFICIAL FLY-FISHING 17 



the placid chalk-stream, the brawling beck, 

 or the crag-bound mountain tarn, the attrac- 

 tion is ever the same. Drawn on by the 

 hope of sport, you find yourself in places 

 where otherwise you might never have ven- 

 tured, and in your wanderings you gain an 

 intimate knowledge of nature in all her 

 varying moods. The sights and sounds of 

 summer are on every hand. Down in the 

 valleys the woods resound with bird music, 

 while on the heath-clad hills the go back ! 

 go back ! of the grouse, and the shrill wail 

 of the curlew, seem fitting in their wild 

 surroundings. 



As you pass through woods and fields, 

 or climb the mountain's brow, the silvery 

 stream at last appears in view, winding in 

 and out amongst the sedges, or cascading 

 over boulders. Instinctively you quicken 

 your footsteps, all eager once more to test 

 your skill. Hurriedly you set up the rod, 

 run the line through the rings, and attach 

 a cast of flies. You spare a moment to fill 

 a pipe and light it, then, cautiously approach- 

 ing the bank, you send the feathered lures 

 upon their journey. They fall, softly as a 

 snowflake, just above the spot where the 

 brown nose of a trout broke the surface. A 

 moment of expectancy as the flies drift down, 



