CLEAR WATERS 



with the major's permits, started in at the head of his 

 water, just below the village of Abergynolwyn, where 

 the river is quite small. It was a perfect fishing 

 morning. There was exactly the right amount of 

 water, and it had fined nicely down into fly condition 

 after a day or two of heavy rain. The sun was shining 

 upon grove, mead, and mountain, which fairly sparkled 

 as only West Britain can sparkle when illuminated 

 after summer storms, and a beautiful soft breeze was 

 blowing. We did nothing, I think, till we got to the 

 confluence of the stream from Llanfihangel, at the foot 

 of Cader, with the Dysynni. Nor do I think at 

 sandwich-and-flask time, half a mile below, had we 

 more than a couple of sewin, and a few respectable 

 brook trout between us. Then as we proceeded lower 

 my friend began to work his conjuring tricks. To 

 shorten my tale, he killed that afternoon, if memory 

 serves me, nine sewin and certainly three grilse of from 

 five pounds to six pounds a-piece. Fortunately he had 

 his son with him to carry them. As for me, it was one 

 of those evil days in which one fancies some accursed 

 imp must be seated on one's shoulders. It is of no 

 consequence, and all of us are liable to them. Every 

 sewin, but a miserable brace basketed, that took me, 

 either went off with the fly through my fault or that 

 of the gut and a very stiff rod, or else shook himself 

 free in the encounter. Nor was it likely that a salmon 

 was going to look at anybody so hopelessly out of 

 favour with the gods. 



But it did rather disturb us under the circumstances 

 when in the evening we met the major and two friends 

 who had been fishing the lowest reaches beneath the 

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