AN EVENING RISE 119 



picture, was drawing well, and the curl of smoke 

 therefrom kept the midges from assaulting that 

 most vulnerable spot just where the forehead 

 meets the lining of the hat. Even then the 

 sport was not over. As darkness approached 

 sport got even better and fish bigger. In 

 time, it was no longer possible for the keenest 

 eyes to spot the floating fly, though in places, 

 where the reflection of the sky struck the water, 

 even a small one could be seen for a time. 

 Large sedge-flies and moths then came fluttering 

 along the banks, and the last and heaviest fish 

 was taken on a silver sedge, after many minutes 

 had been wasted in trying to attach the gut 

 thereto. In my excitement I had forgotten 

 the old trick of looking upwards against the 

 sky at the eye of the hook, so as to see it 

 more clearly. The fast-fading light makes 

 every minute precious, and the feeling that it 

 is so tends to rattle an over-eager temperament. 

 That evening rise leaves lingering memories 

 not easily effaced. The cawing of the rooks 

 in a distant rookery, the bicycle ride to the 

 inn at Itchen Abbas, a well-known fisherman's 

 resort, along the dusty road between dark 

 hedges and overhanging trees. Past gardens 

 with rambler-roses, flowers and sweet herbs 

 giving out their scent in response to the cool 



