236 DRY-FLY FISHING 



gravel ; but the hook holds, and the high rod- 

 point answering every move prevents disaster to 

 the frail cast. The end of the struggle is near, 

 and in deep water we steer into the net as gallant 

 a pounder as ever we hooked. 



Elated with this early success, greater than we 

 dared to expect, we repair to our former station 

 to scan the surface for a similar invitation. That 

 is withheld, and, our patience soon exhausted, we 

 walk up the pool a few yards until we are oppo- 

 site a narrow ditch draining the holm ; ordinarily 

 it is quite a merry stream of bubbling water, whose 

 music we can hear even from the tail of the pool, 

 but now it sends only a feeble drip over the high bank. 



Just above it a bubble floats, perhaps wafted 

 there by the gentle breeze from the tiny fall, but 

 it may be that a trout has left it there a few minutes 

 ago in exchange for a fly, so across we flick the 

 lure. Whatever the reason for the presence of 

 the air-bell, a trout is there and, moreover, seems 

 to have been expecting the fly to arrive, for it 

 snaps it up at once. Duly it pays the penalty 

 for its mistake, a short but merry fight enough, 

 for, though only a half-pounder, it is not lacking 

 in pluck. 



Entering this pool is a stream, which is one of 

 the most generous bits we know, where a floating 

 fly is always certain of attention, sometimes, very 

 seldom, only a little and sometimes as much as 

 anyone could desire. On one occasion, after strug- 

 gling for a time against a downstream gale, receiv- 

 ing nothing but half-hearted rises, we changed 

 our tactics, and took from it half a dozen fine trout 

 on a Red Spider, fished wet. 



