AN OCTOBER PIKE 



UNDER the willows, stripped of their leaves, except 

 for a few fluttering pennons, the river runs full and 

 deep and mellow. The sedges have died into every 

 kind of bronze and golden glory, and below water 

 a good part of the vegetation has yielded to the 

 flood and got itself tucked out of sight or carried 

 away. Right across the river a wall of gloomy 

 bullrushes stands four feet deep in the water and 

 never were neighboured by lesser weeds. Their shade 

 swallows the yellow tone of the water, and gives us 

 from where we stand a pool of deep, unfathomable 

 steel. It is splashed into silver ripples as our sprat, 

 thrown to catch a pike, falls gently in at the end 

 of a taut line some thirty yards in length. The first 

 cast of the season is often a perfect one, as the first 

 visit to the golf links after a long rest produces a 

 stroke that fills us with wonder. As we work the 

 lure towards us on a long slant across the stream, 

 we see it from the mind's eye flashing and hobbling 

 like a wounded fish. We see also a great pike pivot 

 round to watch its course, grinning at it with all his 

 teeth and gathering his springs for a rush at the 

 escaping prey. However, the flashing sprat comes 

 home to us without that rush having been made. 

 330 



