THE TROUT ARE RISING 



i 



IN THE BEGINNING 



JACK- SHARPS called first. In those 

 early, far-off days, only one thing in the 

 wide world really mattered, jack -sharps ! 

 Life concentrated on the pursuit of those 

 diminutive, glittering trophies. The water was a 

 vast, an imposing stream, at least a yard and a half 

 wide, the " several fishery " of a farm near the 

 railway station at Market Drayton, a town in 

 Shropshire. How we boys toiled to get a bag 

 of jack-sharps on those surreptitious, trespassing 

 visits, for we had no extraneous aids, not even 

 such a luxury as a butterfly net. A dry summer 

 mercifully lessened the volume of the current, 

 and, by means of paddling, we were able to pursue 

 stray fishlets in person until, cornered under a 

 stone or in some hiding-place, they were some- 

 how or other secured in triumph. How enthrall- 

 ing a matter is the pursuit of jack-sharps to five- 

 years-old, and how precious is the property which 

 has been safely committed to the glass jar, half- 

 full of water, was vividly brought back to my 



B 



