CHAPTEE XIX. 



AT THE END OF THE OLD YEAR. 



ON the last day of 1906, although somewhat 

 daunted by the exceptionally wretched weather of 

 the previous week, I screwed my courage to the 

 sticking point, and availed myself of an invitation 

 to fish from the private grounds of Twyford Lodge, 

 on the east side of the Itchen, fronting the broad 

 shallows where Salmo thymallus has for centuries 

 made his headquarters, not caring to work up 

 beyond, and the cream of the sport he gives is to be 

 obtained, but only by the man who has learnt how 

 to approach within a long distance of a rising fish 

 with the very utmost caution crouching, on tiptoe, 

 almost holding his breath, and kneeling while wait- 

 ing to make his first cast. For the bank is low, 

 with no sedge or bushes left for cover (and cover is 

 oftentimes a necessity for a dry-fly fisherman's 

 success), while the opposite tree and tangled bush- 

 bordered bank is 5ft. or 6ft. above the level of the 

 rushing stream which undermines it. There the 

 larger fish can remain undisturbed and forage for 

 submerged when not in the mood for surface food. 



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