80 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



a giant oak flung its branches over the seething 

 water, and touched the parapet of the bridge. 



The murmur of the brook and the music 

 of the fall greeted me as I crossed the bridge, 

 rod in hand, late one afternoon towards the 

 end of ,May. It had been one of those ideal 

 spring days when blue skies and fleecy clouds 

 speak of summer, and through the branches the 

 rays of the setting sun rested on the miniature 

 cascade and touched it with a thousand points 

 of scintillating light. 



I could detect no sign of a feeding fish, 

 and, as there was but little fly on the water, 

 possibly owing to the north-east wind which 

 had prevailed for the past two days, I was 

 somewhat at a loss to know what to try. I went 

 through my book, and finally decided upon a 

 small alder, sunk. The oak was sadly de trop, 

 but, at last, I succeeded in placing my fly, with 

 a low underhand cast, where the fall entered 

 the pool. A second time I evaded leaf and 

 twig, and as I worked the line round at the 

 tail of the eddy there came a distinct pluck; 



