228 DRY-FLY FISHING 



Thus it is that anglers dare long for September, 

 for, while it is the end, it is a great and glorious 

 end. It sends them away at the close of the season 

 with the happiest memories of final days of fine 

 sport and magnificent scenes. These make the 

 beginning of the period of enforced idleness the 

 more easy to bear, and, before the waiting ends, 

 anticipation intervenes to keep them cheerful. 

 They may, of course, carry on into mid-October ; 

 but, before that time, the trout have earned their 

 respite and should be left unmolested, if sport 

 is to continue down the years. 



At no time is the country more attractive than 

 in September. Through thick grass drenched with 

 dew, among yellowing bracken and purple heather, 

 the angler walks in the misty air to the water's 

 edge. He hears the song of the river, long before 

 he reaches the banks, and at last he finds the water 

 running full and clear, for the effects of August 

 floods have not completely departed. 



A bank of fog fills the valley as with a sea, and 

 through it loom unexpectedly objects which should 

 be familiar, but are distorted and magnified out of 

 recognition. Above the gloom the tree-tops appear, 

 and up the river rocks suddenly show and as quickly 

 vanish from sight, weird and bewildering. 



A great stillness holds the air, but soon a faint 

 breath steals through; the light grows less dim; 

 vertical columns drift slowly past, damp and chill ; 

 the red sun pierces, is hidden again, and finally 

 it bursts forth victorious. The enveloping fog is 

 mysteriously wafted away, and the whole gorgeous 

 scene is spread before the gaze. 



Every shade of green is seen, but here and there 



