64 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



the flowers in armfuls to brighten the windows 

 of the dismal little streets on the outskirts of 

 the neighbouring town. The steady downpour 

 went on persistently for several more days, until 

 it seemed that skies always had been, and 

 always would be, grey, and we should never 

 see the sun shining on the water-meadows again, 

 or the trout showing up in the crystal clearness 

 of the little stream that meanders through the 

 rich grass. Then, quite suddenly, came the 

 day, warm and sunny. 



Some fortunate folk can look up at the sky 

 on such a day through the interlaced twigs of 

 an apple-tree, covered with just enough pale- 

 green leaves to set off the beauty of clusters of 

 pink-tipped blossoms. Some of these clusters 

 show against patches of brilliant blue sky, some 

 against grey or white clouds with deliciously 

 soft outlines, so different from the hard clouds 

 of a cold winter sky. All the time, pink and 

 white petals drift gently to the ground, shaken 

 off the flowers by little gusts of air coming from 

 various points of the compass. I am one of 

 those fortunate folk this morning. There is 

 just such a tree on our lawn, old, gnarled and 

 unpruned ; the first glance at the sky through 

 it, and the note of the cuckoo sounding from 

 a distant copse near the river, send me off 



