Notes and Sport of a Dry-Fly Purist. 



rigged up my split -cane rod and knotted on to the 

 finest gut a pale olive quill dressed on a cipher hook, 

 but ever and anon scanning the surface of the water 

 for nearly an hour without noticing a single natural 

 fly or any fish moving on it. 



Passing on and coming to a wide ditch, I was- 

 hesitating to cross the single narrow plank over it, 

 for it was sodden, rounded by wear at the edges r 

 and dangerously slippery (as such boards too often 

 are), when the under keeper hove in sight, splashing 

 and picking his way through the irrigated upper 

 meadows, in places ankle deep. Seeing my 

 quandary, and when he had crossed with youth's 

 elastic and fearless step he approached me, and, 

 after asking me to let him see my fishing ticket, 

 strewed handfuls of dry leaves and the stalks of 

 withered flowers over the board, making my 

 passage easy. But, finding the meadows so much 

 flooded, I sent him, with my card, to the owner of 

 the fishery, asking leave, as it was my last chance 

 there, to try in the usually reserved reaches in front 

 of the gardens and lawns of Twyford Lodge. The 

 prompt and courteous reply, " Fish wherever you 

 like," at once raised my hopes of sport, and, the 

 keeper accompanying to show me the nearest way 

 along the sedgy bank, more Blondin feats over risky 

 boards had to be essayed before I was safely in the 

 private grounds and left to my own devices. 



