THE DIPPER. 43 



probably has seen fifty dippers in the whole 

 length of Dovedale. I have not seen twenty. 



Many of the best days fishing have been 

 secured by an angler who takes an interest in 

 watching the habits of a dipper. Tired of 

 walking along on a ruffled day in April, casting 

 up stream every yard of the way upon the 

 Scotch principle that the fly which catches the 

 most fish is the one oftenest upon the water, 

 he at length spears his rod with an impatient 

 jerk into the wet grass, makes a cushion of his 

 mackintosh and plumps himself down on it 

 determined to knock off for a space and smoke 

 a consoling pipe. He sees a small bird fly off 

 a stone and deliberately attempt suicide by 

 drowning. 



He wonders if like Alice and the rabbit he 

 has been dreaming; but his interest is aroused 

 and he finds himself too absorbed to fill his 

 pipe. He watches the dipper flutter right into 

 the sparkling stickle and behave like the 

 penguins in the Zoological Gardens, swimming, 

 diving, and almost running under water in 

 search of food. If he keeps unobserved he can 

 in the space of half-an-hour become a witness 

 of most of its life's history, and will in addition 

 be rewarded by noticing a brace of good fish 

 rising almost within casting distance. Without 

 getting up, he reaches for the rod, places a red 

 upright a foot above the rise, and to his 

 unexpected delight finds it well taken and the 

 fish hooked before he has risen to his knees. 

 He plays him carefully, backing down stream 



