CLEAR WATERS 



daunted at the first flush by the uncompromisingly 

 sylvan character of this river, on to whose banks the 

 little train had dumped them. A military friend of 

 mine who used sometimes to fish for sewin with me 

 in the bush-free waters of West Wales, and heard me 

 speak betimes of the Devonshire Avon with that strong 

 regard I feel for it, hailed upon this very account the 

 call of duty which planted him at Plymouth for a 

 season. He was one of those anglers, of whom I fancy 

 there are a good few, who, I am convinced, enjoy the 

 prospect of fishing and its after-memories more than 

 its actual realities ; and these mental and conversational 

 pleasures associated with the gentle art are of course 

 perfectly genuine. In hunting or shooting such an 

 attitude comes instantly under the suspicion of pose. 

 But humbug is happily impossible in trouting, and 

 these people, I am quite convinced, honestly enjoy 

 those anticipated excursions which will very likely 

 never be made and the recollection of others actually 

 achieved but clouded at the moment with disappoint- 

 ments now forgotten. All the aesthetic and outdoor 

 charm of the craft appeals to their imagination, but 

 when it comes to the actual point the glamour fades a 

 little, or perhaps they are a bit lazy, while they are sure 

 to be rather indifferent performers. 



However, my friend went to Plymouth full of rosy 

 anticipation of many spring and summer days upon 

 my much esteemed river, which is only about an hour 

 by rail from the famous west country seaport and 

 garrison town. He did get there once, of course, but 

 only once, and he wrote to me that he most assuredly 

 would never repeat the experiment. He could not 

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