266 HAPPY HUNTING-GROUNDS 



supreme interest not only to myself (and the fisher- 

 man), but very often also to a feminine gallery. From 

 the seat just outside the dining-room door, or from 

 a window above, one can direct the precise position 

 of the fly and watch every movement of the fish. 

 "Geoff!" I shout, "there is a big fellow lying just 

 parallel to the tuft of reeds at right-angles to the end 

 of the rose-bed. I have not seen him take a fly, but 

 he is pretty high up in the water and seems to be on 

 the look-out. That cast was a little below him ; let 

 out about two yards more line. That time you were 

 over him, and he saw and moved at the fly." Once 

 more, habet ; the line tightens, and the rod bends as 

 the fish makes a dash for the thick bed of water- 

 celery in the centre of the stream. " Hold on to him 

 and guide him down-stream, or he will weed you." 

 The advice is unnecessary, as the angler knows very 

 well what he is about, and has already evaded the 

 most obvious dangers before my well-meant advice 

 could have reached his ears. The struggle is a short 

 and sharp one, watched with breathless interest by 

 the party who have just finished their dessert, and let 

 their coffee cool in the excitement of the scene. Now 

 the net is brought into play, and the trout, a nice 

 fellow of nearly a pound and a half, in perfect condition, 

 is gasping on the grass. I would wager a shilling that 

 another trout, almost the exact counterpart of his 

 deceased brother, will have taken his vacant place 

 to-morrow. 



No more fishing to-night. The owl has left her nest 

 in the big elm, and her weird whistle, heard from time 

 to time, directs attention to her shadowy form as she 

 circles round on noiseless wings searching for a supply 



