100 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



As I go up the bank I scare a wild duck. She 

 goes down-stream, pretending to have a broken 

 wing in order to lure my attention away from 

 her seven little ducklings. A moorhen with 

 her queer little black fluff-ball progeny runs 

 over a weed island, and water-rats swim from 

 side to side of the stream or dodge along the 

 banks. 



Near the bridge, my top boundary, I find a 

 big New Zealander and a pretty, fresh-looking 

 country girl. Where the stream laps the road- 

 edge are two little rival fishermen, luring 

 minnows into bottles with bread-crumb bait. 

 Time passes in talk. I look at my watch 

 only ten minutes more. The water seems sud- 

 denly to be clearing. Soon I see the weeds at 

 the bottom, then a dimple on the surface, 

 under the opposite bank. It seems almost too 

 good to be true. There it is again ! and this 

 time an unmistakable rise to a small fly, swirling 

 out from under the bridge arch. There he is, 

 up again. The New Zealander, coming as he 

 does from a land of trout and knowing their 

 shyness, melts away out of sight, taking his 

 companion with him. I sink down on my 

 knees in the mud. Two flicks in the air to dry 

 my fly, a cast to one side to measure the distance, 

 and then a cast over him. He won't have it. 



