OF PATIENCE, AS IT TOUCHES ANGLERS 143 

 I love to see my fish. The unseen may be a 

 monster (there is always that glorious uncertainty). 

 She is more likely one of these little graylings, and 

 your time has been utterly lost. But the sight of 

 a three-pounder coasting a still pool is in itself an 

 inspiration, and he provides just as much of glorious 

 uncertainty as the smallest ring ever made by 

 invisible fish. Therefore, I particularly haunt this 

 shadowed place which is the best on the river. 

 Here Purfling never comes. Such angling as one 

 does here is, in Purfling's eyes, poacher's work, 

 devil's work. 



Here, then, I can avoid Purfling, and exercise that 

 patience which is supposed to be an essential part 

 of the angler's equipment. 



In the days when I used to dine out, I always 

 found that the lady who had the misfortune to go 

 in with me knew though we might be total 

 strangers to one another that I fished. It was 

 usually the salmon or the filleted sole or the 

 turbot (no other fishes are served at dinner parties) 

 which suggested the observation, " I think you 

 fish." The stranger we were to one another, the 

 sooner this uncanny knowledge was manifested. 

 I often pondered the mystery. I examined my- 

 self to see if angling had left some mark which 

 these sharp-sighted creatures recognised. I won- 

 dered if my hands gave me away, if the wielding 



