44 THE WET-FLY 



the peat ; and every angler knows that 

 there is no water that blends so sweetly 

 with the contents of one's flask as that 

 which has its source in some moorland 

 spring. 



To put together the split-cane of nine 

 feet six inches, and to attach the casting 

 line of silky fineness, equipped with a 

 March Brown and a Red Spinner, is the 

 work of a few moments. Soon the cast 

 glints in the sunlight and falls like a sil- 

 ver hair at the tail-end of the pool above 

 that in which the angler is standing. A 

 couple of diminutive parr make a dart 

 at it, but fortunately do not get hooked. 

 No respectable trout will be among that 

 fugitive crew, so more line is let out, 

 and the next cast is made so that the 

 March Brown alights in deep water, just 

 where the main current swirls round to- 

 wards one of the banks, forming an eddy 

 of spinning foam. Immediately a fish is 

 on, and, after a brave show of fight and 



