Notes and -Sport of a Dry -Fly Purist. 117 



On July 21st an early train landed me at Shawford, 

 and on entering the beautiful park where is the seat of 

 Sir Charles E. Frederick, Bart, (since disposed of), I 

 turned short off to the right, and through a tangled 

 undergrowth of wild flowers, weeds, and nettles, 

 prickly bramble bushes and the trailing branches of 

 Rosa canina, soon reached the back stream, only to 

 find a large group of cattle standing in it, tormented 

 by flies, and churning the water into the colour of 

 milk all the way down, spoiling one's chance of 

 fishing. But at the lower boundary of the demesne, 

 where the main river mingles, it was clear and a few 

 flies floating on it. Directly I knelt in the sedge a 

 brace of partridges sprang from it and whirred 

 away. Eooks were noisy in the elms, and from 

 trees on a small eyot stock-doves told their 

 monotonously mournful tales. But my eyes were 

 watching a trout under an overhanging branch 

 opposite. At length he rose and took a small, 

 pale-winged subimago fly, and while I tied on to 

 my fine gut cast the nearest artificial I could select 

 in size and colour to the natural flies on the water, 

 he dimpled the surface several times, but at the 

 first wave of the rod down he sank to the bottom. 

 Nevertheless, after a pause I threw my lure well 

 over him a yard in front, so that he might see it. 

 At the first cast he moved, at the second boldly 

 'came up and snapped at it ; was well hooked, 



