IN THE BEGINNING 5 



sun gave it of his favour, and wavelets here and 

 there danced and sparkled with joy. 



And so in time came the third stage with 

 all its interests, fishing in a river which held 

 Trout. The career of this little river, the Tern, 

 from its modest source in Staffordshire to its 

 conjunction with the majestic, sober-flowing Severn 

 in Shropshire, I have tried to trace in another 

 chapter. A kind landowner had, through his 

 agent, given us boys permission to fish his length. 

 Most grateful thanks are herein tendered, with a 



D * 



warmth which cold print cannot chill, to him and 

 to all such benefactors for the unalloyed pleasure 

 their goodness gave us. 



The " some day " so ardently hoped for, 

 which was to yield a trout, was long coming, but 

 come it did. It was in the Dog Kennel meadows, 

 near Market Drayton, towards the quiet, coloured 

 end of a summer evening. With borrowed rod 

 and tackle I had managed, at long last and after 

 much thrashing of the waters, to get a rise to the 

 fly. It seemed too good to be true. With every 

 ounce of strength 1 struck, and forthwith, far 

 flung behind me, lay a little trout flopping about 

 on the grass. Bliss, indeed ! But was he big 

 enough to keep ? " The smallest trout eat 

 sweetest. . . . Nobody would say anything to a 

 little boy like me." Yet had not some lofty soul 

 said that the good sportsman always threw back 

 little trout ? which remark I had unfortunately 

 heard. The anguish was great. My first trout ! 

 The act had to be done quickly : so back into 



