XI11 

 OF A BLANK DAY 



EVERY day of angling has some measure of 

 joy and some of sorrow. There is, for 

 example, the delight, always very keen, of viewing 

 the water on arrival, though this has, within my 

 experience, been wanting, the pond which I medi- 

 tated fishing on one occasion having entirely 

 disappeared, owing to a breach in its embank- 

 ment. But this disappointment was balanced 

 to some extent by the knowledge that I should 

 never fish there again. It had been an infam 

 nil nisi bonum. On the other side of the account 

 there is the sorrow of catching no fish. This is 

 acute, and usual with me. But even on my blank 

 days I can look back with pleasure. One carries 

 away something with one from a river, though the 

 creel be empty as the day it was woven. One 

 cannot have failed to see all sorts of pretty things, 

 to hear all sorts of pretty sounds, to smell sweet 

 scents, to relish one's lunch. The senses have 

 been exquisitely wooed. One has been out of 

 London. That in itself is a rich satisfaction. 



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