AUGUST 135 



below the road. A steady strain, and the little rod, now 

 bent into a semi-circle, gradually brings him into the 

 eddy, and after a few dashes he is in the net a nice fish 

 of 1 Jib. 



This performance has thoroughly disturbed the small 

 extent of water, so off I go to the quiet, oily stream 

 above the mill. 



Right by the sluice gate, with trees behind and the 

 overflow sill extending for twenty feet below, a pounder 

 is rising, but I leave him to enjoy his well-chosen place 

 of safety, and stroll along the water. Half-way up, on 

 the opposite side, under some withies I see a nice, steady 

 rise, then another, and, while one can count ten, 

 another. A quick swish or two to dry the fly, a quiet 

 creep of about ten yards to get within casting range, 

 then a false cast to measure the distance, and out flies 

 the Coachman, to alight about four inches above him. 

 Instantly away it goes, and, butting him, I find I am 

 into another fair fish, but no great fighter. Down to the 

 bottom he bores, and one feels him digging in the weeds. 

 But the pull is from downstream, and away we both go 

 towards the sluice. A very little of this satisfies him, 

 and into the net and out on the bank he comes, a fish of 

 1 Jib. It is already beginning to get dusk, for the even- 

 ings quickly draw in now ; but higher up is another busy 

 fish, one I have known before, a knowing card, whose 

 position has been taken up at a spot above, and in the 

 run of a willow branch that sweeps the water. I cast, 

 the fish rises, and I strike, to discover a fact hidden 

 from me by the dusk that my fly was at least two feet 

 away from the fish. I let out more line, and cast again, 

 this time I hook the willow. By a series of gentle 

 shakes I endeavour to free the line ; these shakes become 

 jerks, and I free everything, save the fly and an inch or 

 two of gut. Then the fun begins. The fish keeps on 

 rising, so I endeavour to thread on another eyed-fly, 

 holding it against the darkening sky ; just as patience is 

 about exhausted, and despair is claiming me for its own, 

 the gut slips through, and in a second or two all is again 

 ready for the fray. Again a cast or two to try and judge 



