august 



LXII 



THE angler who falls under the fatal witchery of the 

 dry fly undergoes a serious metempsychosis. He learns 

 the deeper ecstasy of his art, but gone are 

 the simple delights of ' chuck-and-chance-it.' 

 Henceforward he still may be found drifting on 

 highland loch or wandering beside lowland burn, when 

 the south wind blows its softest under summer clouds, 

 and the air hums with gentle pipe of heather flies and 

 the drowsy base of the gairey bee; but he will be 

 obviously listless, killing the time till he may return 

 to the worship of his new mistress. Nothing rightly 

 stirs his nerves but the even oily flow of a southern 

 chalk-stream, pellucid as the air itself; the full blaze 

 of noontide ; great brown trout with eyes in their tails 

 nay, in every spot in their skins sucking down the 

 floating duns softly oh! so softly or fanning them- 

 selves on shallow sofas of water-crowfoot, inviting a 

 trial of cunning more subtle than their own. 



How they hate man and every trace of him, those 

 precociously wise trout ! Let but incautious footfall or 

 gleam of varnished cane (why do we use shiny rods ?) 

 betray his presence, and how they fly ! Not merely in 



L 



