110 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



up-stream air helps out the last link. The 

 fly alights gently, a foot above his nose. He 

 takes it confidently, and, as soon as he feels 

 the hook, dashes full-speed down-stream to his 

 haunts below. I cannot raise my rod to play 

 him at this spot, so have to put the strain on 

 sideways when he stops his rush. The struggle, 

 splashing down to him, reeling in as I go, waders 

 sticking at every step, the clear stream becoming 

 thick below me with the mud thereby stirred up, 

 and, after a five-minutes' battle, the final lift 

 of the landing-net, into which he has blundered 

 in the thick water : all this I leave to the imagi- 

 nation of brother-fishers. Then I clamber up 

 the bank, splashed from head to foot, and with 

 hands and face stung by nettles as I get up the 

 steep side. I had overestimated his weight by 

 only two ounces. His good condition I had not 

 misjudged, as he showed by a tremendous fight 

 for freedom. 



Herself and I walk homewards together. The 

 whole course of the stream is marked with 

 clouds of May-flies rising upwards from the 

 water, and the clouds turn a delicate pink as 

 the glow of the sunset sky shines through myriads 

 of transparent wings. We seem to hear a gentle 

 rustle as the flies rise in thousands from the 

 stream and flutter upwards into the new element, 



