A FINAL CAST 309 



says nothing, and, sure sign that no one has dis- 

 turbed the pools this morning, a heron rises beyond 

 the bend. 



What a change of scene is this ! On our last 

 four expeditions we have been poking among trees, 

 doing all sorts of intricate swings, both elegant 

 and the reverse, with a hefty salmon rod, shooting 

 the line and recovering it in coils on the bank, 

 where of course it would often succeed in securely 

 attaching itself to brambles and thistles ; wading 

 in a boiling stream where every stone is a thing of 

 life and full of guile ; dodging behind and casting 

 over bushes mercifully trimmed to make the work 

 less impossible, and the reward was ever the same 

 tired limbs and extreme weariness of heart, and 

 glorious rises from mighty salmon immediately we 

 had passed them by. 



Here all is entirely different. Not a tree, not 

 even a bush, interferes with the long, free sweep of 

 the cast ; wading in the stream is more comfortable 

 than walking on the bank, though an incautious step 

 on loose gravel beside a pool might result in total 

 immersion ; the trout when he rises, means to 

 feed : when the line passes over him he retires to 

 the depths, flees in alarm from the dangerous place ; 

 he does not rise to taunt us. As for the recompense 

 of labour, that is still to be discovered. 



The little rod feels a mere toy in the hand. We 

 wonder at first if it is all there, so light and useless 

 it seems, but after an hour of incessant casting the 

 wrist is left in no doubt that work has been per- 

 formed. Its action is awhile unfamiliar, and yet 

 the same handy little weapon has brought to the 

 net or bank many hundreds of trout from this very 



