AMONG THE HILLS 273 



Memories of the past crowd upon us ; great 

 events may take place where they have before 

 occurred ; where a fine trout fell to the lure, a 

 worthy successor may lie in wait ; the monarch 

 of the pool, which once we raised and lost, may 

 rise again, and we tremble with excitement as we 

 approach the well-remembered spot. 



We recall conversations with other anglers, and 

 hear again their accounts of wonderful days of 

 the long ago, when trout were not expert entomo- 

 logists, and rivers ran full and undefiled throughout 

 the year, when pollution was unheard of and the 

 dry-fly unnecessary. Despair may readily overtake 

 the angler on an unfamiliar river ; but on a favour- 

 ite stream hopefulness cannot altogether leave him. 



Still we have disquieting thoughts to-day. While 

 the river is in grand order, very clear but of fine 

 volume, with every stone washed bright by the 

 flood of a week ago, yet that is the only favourable 

 condition. It is a day of late August, dull, sultry, 

 and heavy ; thundery clouds hang low over the 

 hills ; across the valley stretches a thick rain- 

 curtain, and down towards us it comes on the 

 wings of the light South-west wind. We shall 

 have to cast against the breeze, a prospect none too 

 attractive. 



Almost before it reaches us the rain vanishes, 

 the sun pours through a cleft in the clouds, and 

 we begin to feel somewhat cheery as we stand 

 fitting up the rod on the gravel beside the first 

 stream. Not a fly sails the wave or flutters past 

 in the breeze ; not a rise disturbs the quiet pool 

 or the sparkling stream. We have only two hours 

 at our disposal, and therefore can wait for neither 



