Notes and Sport of a Dry -Fly Purist. 181 



said he, pointing at it, while for a few moments I 

 continued to try to place my liy (a Wickham fancy 

 with a red tag dressed on a No. 1 hook) in front of 

 it. But as after each dimpling rise the fish worked 

 up and still continued to feed, it seemed too 

 promising a chance to trifle with. Therefore I 

 quietly withdrew back, showed my fishing permit, 

 briefly exchanged views with the keeper, and then, 

 as is my wont, excused his further attendance on 

 me ; changed my fly for a 00 gold-ribbed hare's ear, 

 and resumed the rod, perforce kneeling to keep out 

 of sight, before again throwing over the fish, who 

 seemed to be taking smut-like diptera. After 

 much casting and hope was beginning to faint, my 

 fly was sucked in, when an instant turn of the wrist 

 made the hook fasten, and the usual prolonged 

 struggle began, the grayling scurrying zigzag down- 

 stream along the surface, then suddenly turning 

 and boring low down, trying to entangle in the 

 weeds, until tired out and safely brought to net. 

 A first success is very encouraging. 



Then I moved up, halting on the cow bridge for 

 half an hour to hook and land two brace of small 

 grayling. Afterwards, climbing over the awkward 

 fence, with the risk of breaking one's leg, and for 

 the present passing the two swampy meadows 

 bordering the west side of the river, I entered the 

 private grounds referred to above. More light was 



