few indeed in those weedy streams would suc- 

 cumb to the tiny hooks and gossamer gut neces- 

 sary for effecting their capture at any time but 

 the mayfly season. I see a few alders on the 

 water, and am most successful with an imitation 

 of that fly, dressed pretty large and sunk rather 

 deep. In spite of the weather, I nearly always 

 get an offer from any fish I see rise within reach 

 and manage to put my fly over ; but although I 

 strike very quickly, I do not succeed in touching 

 one in three, as they see too much, and turn 

 before they actually touch the fly. One little 

 fish of about a quarter of a pound is hooked 

 foul, near the ventral fin, and makes for the 

 weeds near the bottom so stubbornly that, until 

 I see where he is hooked, I try to persuade 

 myself that I have at last got hold of a monster 

 of the deep. The most productive spot is the 

 end near the reeds, where a line of waterlily 

 leaves are just showing. There I get one fish 

 of nearly three-quarters of a pound, beautifully 

 shaped and marked, which really makes a de- 

 termined struggle for liberty, actually reaching 

 the weeds and for a moment attaching the 

 dropper to one of them, which, fortunately, is 

 not sufficiently firm to break the casting-line. 



And now for a few moments a change comes 

 over the scene. Hitherto there has been nothing 

 but the lightest possible ripple, and often not 

 even that ; but now a sudden blast beats down 



