A TEME FISHERMAN TREED. 51 



twist of the wrist, a knack which has not come 

 to my unaccustomed fist. I think I know 

 how to do it, but somehow I don't do it. 



I fished down two or three meadows for an 

 hour or so, and I hooked and landed one nice 

 trout and one grayling. I did not become 

 excited, and exhibit my trophies to all passers- 

 by, as in my youthful " Dove Dale Days." I 

 quietly dropped them into my basket, and re- 

 sumed my sport with businesslike gravity. 



On the opposite side of the river was an- 

 other sportsman, and I am happy to say that 

 although he was a dweller in the town of Lud- 

 low, and probably a Teme fisherman all his 

 days, he certainly was a thorough " muff." 



He flogged one hole for a quarter of an hour 

 in a most outrageous way, and then, to his 

 extreme bewilderment, he got hooked in the 

 upper branches of a tall tree. He began by 

 flinging up big stones and sticks in the vain 

 hope of dislodging his flies. Then he shouted 

 across to me, and asked me if I would mind 

 staying where I was, and keep a look-out for 

 the safety of his basket, rod, and treed flies, 

 and see that they didn't fly away while he ran 

 home, a mile and a half or so, to get a ladder. 

 I told him I didn't much mind. I fished about 

 there for some time, but with no more success, 

 till I was tired, and, as it was getting late and 



