A LONDON TROUT 



memory till the date we fancied we should never 

 forget has to be sought in a -diary. But the year 

 is always with us ; the months are familiar always ; 

 they have never gone by. 



So with the red haws around and the rustling 

 leaves it is easy to recall the flowers. The withey 

 plantation here is full of flowers in summer; 

 yellow iris flowers in June when midsummer 

 comes, for the iris loves a thunder-shower. The 

 flowering flag spreads like a fan from the root, the 

 edges overlap near the ground, and the leaves are 

 broad as swordblades, indeed the plant is one of 

 the largest that grows wild. It is quite different 

 from the common flag with three grooves bayo- 

 net shape which appears in every brook. The 

 yellow iris is much more local, and in many coun- 

 try streams may be sought for in vain, so that so 

 fine a display as may be seen here seemed almost a 

 discovery to me. 



They were finest in the year of rain, 1879, that 

 terrible year which is fresh in the memory of all 

 who have any interest in out-of-door matters. At 

 midsummer the plantation was aglow with iris 

 bloom. The large yellow petals were everywhere 

 high above the sedge; in one place a dozen, then 

 two or three, then one by itself, then another 

 bunch. The marsh was a foot deep in water, 

 which could only be seen by parting the stalks of 

 -83- 



