A WEEK-END IN WILTSHIRE 99 



for my first view of the chalk-stream. Down 

 on my hands and knees for the last few yards, 

 for fear of scaring a big fish whose usual haunts 

 I know ; just a moment's pause, to touch the 

 hackles of the little fly with oil, in case he should 

 be rising, and then I raise my head slowly 

 and cautiously to look at the water the stream 

 is coming down as thick as pea-soup. The 

 people above are cutting their weeds, which are 

 passing by in great masses, and they are sending 

 down all the mud that has accumulated in their 

 mill-pool during the past winter. Numbers of 

 flies are floating on the surface of the pea-soup, 

 which would mean a good rise and a splendid 

 day, if the trout could only see them. 



There is a certain missionary hymn, familiar 

 to us all in our early years, about a country 

 where prospects please but the vileness of man 

 is accentuated. I decide to concentrate upon 

 the pleasure, ignore the vileness, and spend my 

 remaining two hours (there is work to be done 

 in the afternoon) watching the pea-soup flow 

 by and listening to the bird-chorus. The cuckoo 

 soon becomes a burden, as the whole air seems 

 to be full of his note ; the blackbirds and thrushes 

 are silent for the time, but a nut-hatch is busy 

 in the wood opposite with his queer noise, and 

 there is a snipe drumming somewhere overhead. 



