284 DRY-FLY FISHING 



to rush up the stream, but that we cannot allow, for 

 we have still use for that curving, wavy water, and 

 we force it to come down to the deeps where we lead 

 it on to the gravel a plump little trout of the moor- 

 land. Back we go to fish out the stream and secure 

 another but smaller victim. 



Soon we reach a little pool, a basin hewn from the 

 rock it seems to be, but it is floored with fine gravel, 

 while here and there dimly show larger stones, which 

 we are sure will shelter some fair trout. Into the 

 white foam of the rush we place the fly ; it floats, 

 but the hissing water pulling on the cast would, if 

 it had time, drag it beneath. Before that happens, 

 however, a golden trout, the monarch of the pool, 

 has launched itself upon it. There ensues a hurry 

 to and fro, a sharp conflict all over the pool ; so 

 quick and unexpected are the movements of the 

 trout that the eye is unable to keep pace with it ; 

 but the hook does, and in time we find a creek 

 whither we lead the plucky fighter. 



And so gradually we work our way upstream 

 among the rocks, over the grassy hummocks, picking 

 up a fish now and then, until the time comes for the 

 return. It has been a strenuous day of incessant 

 casting, fine practice in the art of accurate delivery, 

 and we have taken trout or tried to take them from 

 almost every conceivable variety of water ; we have 

 been alone in the solitudes and, while the trout 

 reposing in the creel are smaller than the broad river 

 could give if it would, they afford us infinite satis- 

 faction and help us to forget the poor days under the 

 merciless sun. 



