234 AN ANGLER'S HOURS xm 



unheeded. Presently he finds himself by 

 the side of a big pool below a brick bridge 

 built for Farmer John's hay waggons. There 

 is not a sign of a moving trout, but he fishes 

 over it carefully, and at last, almost under 

 the arch, he gets a rise and hooks his fish. 

 It fights gamely, but in this open pool it is 

 comparatively simple work to land it, and it 

 duly goes into his basket, a nice little trout 

 of nearly a pound. Then he goes on up- 

 stream feeling more cheerful. There is, it 

 must be confessed, rather a monotony about 

 the pools of a brook, especially if one is not 

 sure whether they contain trout, and one 

 never can be sure unless one has seen them 

 on that July evening. They are solemn, I 

 might almost say sulky, pieces of heavy 

 water, and it seems of little use to fish them. 

 Our friend catches nothing and sees nothing 

 for the next half-mile, though he tries the 

 worm as well as the fly. Then at a sharp 

 corner he finds a pretty gravel shallow, at 

 the head of which he gets another rise. He 

 misses the fish, though, and consoles himself 

 with the thought that it was only a small 

 one. A quarter of a mile higher up the 

 brook runs under a road, and on a shallow 



