A DAY ON THE ITCHEN 95 



as the rod-top bends and the butt and wrist 

 throb with the strain, the playing of the fish, 

 wondering whether enough care was taken in 

 attaching the fine point to the cast of gut, the 

 final tiring of the fish, until we hope he is 

 guided by the strain down-stream steadily into 

 the net, carefully lowered near the bank to 

 receive him, and, at last, the lift of the net, 

 heavy with his weight. If that has happened 

 six times in a day, with disasters galore inter- 

 vening to accentuate each triumph, such happen- 

 ings should suffice for deep contentment. It 

 is strenuous work ; the fisher does justice to his 

 tea on a summer's afternoon, and, if he is wise, 

 he adds two poached eggs thereto before tackling 

 the jam and cake, and he has the loaf on the 

 table, if he means to go out for the evening 

 rise. That will be better later in the year, 

 when that delightful feeling of freshness comes 

 into the air after a sweltering hot day, and the 

 valley is bathed in the yellow afterglow of the 

 sunset. 



And to all dwellers in towns, with the joys 

 of fishing latent in their souls, I would say, with 

 Izaak Walton : 



But turn out of the way a little . . . towards yon honey- 

 suckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower 

 falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a 



