The Great Unlanded 125 



be avoided. No sooner thought of than 

 accomplished. At the first cast he came at 

 the fly with a will and was hooked. A 

 desperate attempt to get amongst the twigs 

 of the tree failing, he came down with a 

 furious rush almost under my feet. The 

 winch sang a merry, merry tune. Thirty 

 yards of line were out before I realised the 

 position. I understood it better when the 

 line came back and the top of the rod 

 straightened itself out ! I never saw him 

 except in a dim and distant manner, but I 

 cherish the belief that he was the kind of fish 

 which is ultimately choked by trying to 

 swallow a drowned puppy. Even the other 

 night I seemed to hear once more the song of 

 the reel, and to feel the rod bend like a bow 

 as by a clean-run salmon in its first rush. 



There is another spot to which my 

 thoughts revert even more persistently. 

 This is an osier-bed by the Kennet. The 

 stream is full of coarse fish, and the trout only 

 rise in this part of the river when the may- 

 fly is on. If a dozen are taken during that 



