WET FLY TROUT FISHING 129 



the first thought in the morning has been " what 

 sort of a day is it ? " Probably that is the 

 first thought of every one^ who lives out of a 

 town and cares about the country. It is always 

 some sort of a day in the country, not always 

 the sort that has been expected or desired, but 

 one to be looked at, studied, recognised and 

 made the most of in an appropriate spirit. Now 

 and then, but very rarely, there conies a day 

 which is fit for nothing but to sit in the library 

 with one's back to the window. I am sure I 

 have known one or two such days, but I cannot 

 describe one of them. Directly one begins to 

 think of any past day, some feature of weather or 

 light or sky is recalled, which seems to prove that 

 the day had some interest, if only by contrast. 

 The least interesting day is perhaps one with a 

 dull unbroken sky, a very cold but not very 

 strong east wind, the thermometer ranging only 

 from about 32 to 35 in the twenty-four hours, 

 and with neither sun, nor rain, nor snow, nor hail, 

 nor frost, nor indeed anything violent or remark- 

 able. As for great gales and storms there is a 

 fearful joy and excitement about them not to be 

 missed in the country, and rain is delightful. But 



