40 THE TROUT ARE RISING 



at the little hotel, whose host was a real Devon 

 man. They do tell, down-along there, of the 

 reception which, when the war was still young, he 

 gave to a young fellow who came to inquire 

 about the fishing, and who loftily complained he 

 had not received an answer to his letter. For 

 reply the landlord, so the tale goes, gave him : 

 " Us doesn't write many letters down here, these 

 times, us doesn't, and what I wants to know is 

 why aren't you in the Army ? There's the rivers 

 down there for the fishing, and you can go and 

 look at 'em for yourself ! " The visitor went, 

 apparently to look at 'em for himself. He did 

 not return to the hotel. 



The landlord, worthy man, was a study. At 

 his remote hostelry, fishermen who had been 

 in almost all quarters of the globe foregathered, 

 lured by the trout. Welcoming the traveller, 

 he would say : " . . . and breakfast's round- 

 about a quarter-past nine, and if there's not 

 enough just go in the kitchen and help yourself ! " 

 But there was always enough, and to spare. 

 What a change it was from the rush and bustle 



O 



of ordinary town life. The guests composed just 

 a large family party, a laughing family party. If 

 you are hearing the Devon dialect for the first 

 time, you will listen to the lilt. The meanings 

 are clear, the expressions so quaint. A Devon 

 gardener was asked by his mistress what colour 

 the flowers of a certain plant would be, and he 

 replied, knowingly : " Her never blooms, mum 

 her never do bloom ! Her do climb up and 



