Notes and Sport of a Dry -Fly Purist. 141 



cirro-cumulus clouds slowly sailed, with spaces 

 between looking like mountain lakes. Wood-pigeons 

 started from covert unexpectedly ; rabbits and 

 smaller rodents also ; while soft -eyed kine and their 

 calves browsed in the distance, or, sheltered from 

 the noontide heat, stood in groups beneath the 

 shade of noble trees. Qn the western bank of the 

 lower reach, but some yards away from the brink of the 

 smooth and gently flowing river, I knelt and watched 

 for a rise of the Ephemera and of fish. Nor waited 

 long, for a single dark-winged olive, coming to the 

 surface, was quickly followed by a straggling line of 

 others floating down, amid which my artificial fly 

 was lightly thrown. It was a red quill on 00 hook, 

 a pattern I invariably begin with on our southern 

 chalk streams, no matter what fly is on the water. 

 It was frequently risen to with a small splash, and 

 yet the fish missed it, or purposely came short, for 

 several times I distinctly noticed one move up to 

 the surface to inspect it and sink back ; once or 

 twice, indeed, it was merely touched and drowned, 

 but never seized. It was the same at two other 

 places I moved to, and I changed it for a Wickham, 

 or a blue quill to no purpose. 



Then the water began to mend because the large 

 hatches were all opened, and where I first tried 

 there was now a swift broad run in mid-channel 

 between beds of weeds. Fish still rose as freely as 



