MUSINGS OF A BUSH RIDE 59 



with the riding whip. That is why, halting here for 

 an hour on the crest of a hill, overlooking scrub of 

 glossy green, bright patches of young maize, and a 

 river shimmering in the valley, I am noting a few of 

 the best-day memories which the easy paces of Brownie 

 have allowed me in the saddle. 



What a day was that amongst the trout on the Chess ! 

 I wrote for permission to spend one afternoon only 

 upon certain private waters, and the noble owner by 

 return of post sent me an order for two days. It was 

 June. The meadows, hedgerows ay ! and even the 

 prosaic railway embankments were decked with floral 

 colouring, and at Rickmansworth I had to linger on 

 the platform to take another look at the foliage heavily 

 shading the old churchyard, and at the distant woods 

 to the left. When I came back to quarters, after 

 dark, having fished the river for a few hours, I began 

 to think I might as well have stopped in London. The 

 fish would not rise that afternoon, and there was but a 

 beggarly brace in the basket. Some wretch above had 

 been mowing his lawn and casting the contents of the 

 machine into the stream at regular intervals. He got 

 rid of his grass, certainly ; but this was no gain to me, 

 whose hooks perseveringly caught the fragments float- 

 ing by. At last the grass pest ceased. The mowing 

 man had left his task at six o'clock, no doubt, and the 

 soft twilight would soon come on time dear to anglers. 

 But the cattle had an innings then. During the most 

 precious hour they waded into the river higher up, of 

 course and a pretty state of discolour they made of 

 it. In this way the first essay left me abundance 

 of room to hope for the morrow. 



Fresh, sweet, and dewy it was at four o'clock on the 

 next morning. The keeper had told me of a certain 

 upper reach of quiet water where, during the Mayfly 



