A^WILTSHIRE WATER-MEADOW 69 



story. So onwards I follow the stream, stumbling 

 through a marshy bit trodden soft by cattle, 

 then on to sounder ground, until I reach a 

 post-and-rail fence ending in a deep pool with 

 a big willow hanging over it from my bank. 

 Some one up-stream has been cutting his weeds : 

 a pile of them lies rotting in the sun, held up 

 by an old post near my bank. There is a 

 gravelly shallow on the opposite side, and in 

 it, the sight of all sights for a fly-fisher, seen 

 for the first time in the year, a trout, taking 

 persistently and confidently every fly that 

 passes within a foot of his nose, following those 

 that pass him when they come down in batches, 

 and letting few escape. Only about a ten- 

 ounce fish, but a little beauty, in good condition 

 already, and rising freely soon the big ones 

 below will be doing the same ! I watch him 

 for a time, glad that I left the little rod at home. 

 I could not have resisted trying whether I 

 could make a fly drift through the little eddies 

 over his nose in exactly the same way that the 

 natural flies are drifting. Then I turn home- 

 wards down-stream. There is nothing moving 

 in the water above the copse but one small 

 jack, which makes a characteristic sudden dart 

 for a few yards and then settles close to the 

 bottom across the current. They often do 



