RAIN, HAIL, AND SLEET 105 



those occasional lulls in which the blast 

 lay low to gather fury for the next 

 onslaught. Every angler knows the 

 monotonous effect of this when nothing 

 happens. Your thoughts gradually go 

 abroad, and you swish on mechanically. 

 This I did for an hour, plodding up in 

 the troubled current. Then something 

 did happen. I was rudely recalled to 

 the work of the moment by a hooked 

 fish. It was a grayling too, not a silly 

 youngster, not even a rash "shott," as 

 we call the fish of that variety that has 

 not yet spawned, though almost mature ; 

 but an honest pounder, that knew the 

 ways of the world he swam in. Buffeted 

 by the north-wester, drenched with the 

 pelting rain, up and up I waded, dreeing 

 my weird as best I might for two hours, 

 keeping to my steady casting and to my 

 one fly, and leaving the fish to settle the 

 rest for themselves. A fish, caught here 

 and there, was a grim surprise rather than 

 a pleasure, and it was a distinct relief 

 when I saw that the road- washings had 



