1 6 Wet- Fly Fishing 



waters thunder down from the rocks above. 

 See ! I have at times to crawl on hands 

 and knees to reach the place I am aiming 

 for ; but at length I am enabled to sit down 

 on a large stone, some yards below the 

 tail-end of the pool, and I am glad to mop 

 the perspiration from my brow, and to take 

 a moment's breathing space. As I gaze, 

 a gust of wind shakes that stunted birch 

 tree overhanging its deepest and blackest 

 part at the further side but, now a few 

 flies fall upon the surface and slowly move 

 around the eddy. Then, out of the black- 

 ness of night, comes a bar of gold ! Again 

 and yet again it flashes from fly to fly ! I 

 am nineteen, and, as I involuntarily exclaim, 

 "What a thumper !" my heart thumps 

 wildly. 



My flies now are Greenwell's Glory for 

 tail fly, and a red hackle for the dropper. 

 Greenwell's Glory is sent forth on an ex- 

 ploring expedition time after time, but 

 nothing comes of it, and yet Greenwell's 

 Glory is a grand explorer. Eeturning to 

 my stone, I sit down and give myself up to 

 the friendly solace of my pipe that trout, 

 big on my brain, you bet. 



My eyes meanwhile scan the surface 

 of the dark moss-coloured waters. 



