ON DUNEATON WATER 253 



there is so much to do and see. The fresh breeze 

 of the moor cools us as, after the labour of an hour's 

 patient fishing, we lie deep in the grass gazing 

 skywards, watching for the mysterious birth of a 

 cloud, its growth and flight across the heavens ; 

 we revel in the great distances. Here we do not 

 feel confined; here is freedom, here is space, and 

 it is only when a stronger breath of wind wafts to 

 us the gentle living voice of the water that we take 

 up the rod again. 



There is no monotony ; there can be none beside 

 flowing water, and least of all by a moorland stream. 

 Where shall we find more variety ? Yet we may 

 easily destroy it all and thus miss the joys that 

 await. 



We may crouch upon or even wriggle along a 

 high bank that we may lay, ourselves unseen, a 

 dainty fly over a glassy pool ; we may have to 

 wade deep that our presence remain unsuspected 

 and cast a straight line to an intricate corner ; we 

 may have to switch a fly round a projecting point 

 where the eye may not follow, and listen for the 

 sound that calls forth the strike ; we may place 

 the fly on the grass, and with gentle touch of the 

 line bring it softly to the water where a fine trout 

 lies expectant ; we must take every precaution, 

 if we would hope to lure the best of these lively 

 fish that have learned to fear the dangers that 

 surround them. And we may do none of these 

 things, but simply draw off a fair length of line 

 and blunder along the banks, scaring many trout 

 and raising few, and these few only innocent young 

 things. Not a tree shades the stream ; here and 

 there a bush may dip a twig into the water, yet 



