FISHING AT HOME AND ABROAD 

 tresses of weed. Its volume never varies more than a few inches during 

 the fishing season; it depends, not upon summer rain, but upon that of 

 the foregoing winter, which, soaking into the chalk, is steadily distilled 

 from that mighty reservoir throughout the months of drought; so that 

 a true chalk stream is never ** out of order " in summer, unless it be 

 discoloured for a few hours by a thimder plump sending in road- 

 washings. 



Another important difference between northern and southern trout 

 streams is this: whereas in the northern waters trout are usually hungrier 

 than their southern kinsmen, and consequently may be induced to rise 

 at the artificial fly at times when the natural insect is not on the water, 

 in a chalk stream one must wait till the fly begins to rise — ^that is, when 

 the aquatic *' nymph," intermediate between larva and imago, comes 

 to the surface and undergoes the wonderful metamorphosis from a water - 

 breathing to an air-breathing creature. Until that takes place, the angler 

 may pass the time not unpleasantly in studying the myriad beauties of 

 bird, insect and flower which so lavishly enrich these southern valleys; 

 but he should scan the stream pretty frequently, for so soon as the fly 

 shows on the water, the serious business of the day begins. 



It is difficult to describe the nature of that business and the manner 

 of its transaction without becoming intolerably prosy. Izaak Walton's 

 sense of literature was delicate enough to warn him against that; ac- 

 cordingly he cast his instruction into the form of colloquy between the 

 docile Venator and the adept Piscator, introducing sundry subordinate 

 characters — ^the Milkmaid, Coridon and others — ^to enliven the lesson. 

 The device was so charmingly executed that it was adopted by a whole 

 host of imitators. Richard Franck himself, Izaak's relentless critic, dis- 

 dained not to take that leaf out of his great rival's book; it became the 

 standard form of angling literature, and very tiresome, too, in hands 

 less skilful than those of the masters of the craft. Perhaps the simplest, 

 as it is the easiest plan, is to dive into the recesses of memory, reviving 

 the incidents of a typical day with the dry fly; for although I can lay 

 claim to no more than moderate proficiency in this branch of angling, 

 I have had the advantage of fishing in the company of such adepts as 

 Sir Edward Grey and Mr A. N. Gilbey, and of vainly emulating the 

 consummate performance of these artists. 



Let us then imagine Piscator setting out upon that part of the Itchen 

 which skirts Avington Park as far down as the old brick bridge at Itchen 

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