232 AN ANGLER'S HOURS xm 



nose. Much flicking and little water have 

 dried the March brown, and it floats nicely 

 down-stream. As, other things being equal, 

 it was morally certain he would, the fish 

 takes it in a business-like way as soon as it 

 reaches him, and the angler strikes. For 

 about a quarter of a minute there is a sharp 

 tussle ; the trout dashes about in the shallow 

 water, and the man in the foolishness of his 

 heart thinks he has him ; but finding that 

 the weeds are not strong enough to help 

 him, the fish soon turns and bolts down- 

 stream into his hole, and then the fly comes 

 away. 



It is disappointing, but natural. Pike 

 tackle would hardly hold a trout in this 

 water, where it is only a distance of a foot 

 or two to the nearest root, and only by the 

 merest luck could a light fly-cast be expected 

 to do so. With human inconsistency the 

 angler, who in his calmer moments would 

 defend the beauty of brook-fishing against 

 all comers, mutters a wrathful wish that he 

 had had the Atlantic or some other open piece 

 of water in which to play the fish. Rather 

 humbled, he then continues his way up- 

 stream. In a deep, dark pool at a bend he 



