A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



But, all the same, one can have disagreeable days out 

 fishing, though never, I think, quite so odious and de- 

 pressing as a horrid day out shooting. Cold, abominable 

 blustering wind, no fly, no rise, and when everything goes 

 wrong. 



A man built a house ; the doors wouldn't shut, the win- 

 dows wouldn't open. Said a friend to him, " Your house 

 is built in Queen Anne's style, isn't it ? " "No," said the 

 owner gloomily, " Bloody Mary." How often one starts off 

 anticipating a Queen Anne's day, and experiences ! 



Nevertheless hope still rises eternal in the angler's breast, 

 and he is convinced that he will catch fish next time ; that 

 next time he will combine better luck and better skill. In 

 spite of experience, in spite of disappointment, he is always 

 going to discover the fly, and to find the fish eager to take it. 

 He is always going to cast a lovely, light, straight line ; to 

 strike exactly at the right moment, and to a nicety ; to play 

 wisely and well ; to land cleverly and promptly ; and to 

 secure his record fish. 



The morrow comes, and the real dissipates the ideal. 



Then there are the quiet and the solitude incidental to 

 fishing — the warm days, the delicious sunshine ; the fragrance 

 and beauty of the woods and meadows ; the voices of the birds, 

 and the enchantment of running water. It is all this com- 

 bined which — without prejudice to the great enjoyment to be 

 derived from shooting — makes fishing so absorbing, so enjoy- 

 able, so restful ; and best " for yure solace, and to cause 

 the helthe of yure body and especially of yure soul." No man 



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