XII 

 64 MY ENEMY" 



IT is September, near the end of the trout- 

 fishing year in these parts, and it is raining 

 softly and persistently from a grey sky. All 

 the colour has gone out of the landscape, and 

 all the glory of the water-meadow flowers. 

 I am standing at an elbow corner of a chalk- 

 stream, where the river flows evenly down 

 to the corner, washes against my bank, and 

 then goes on its way downwards through the 

 meadows. On the opposite side is a copse 

 of alders, with a rank undergrowth of coarse 

 grass and rushes ; my own bank is clear of 

 obstructions to the fisher, with the exception 

 of a big willow which hangs over a deep pool 

 about seventy yards below me. I am thinking 

 of " my enemy," and missing him sorely. He 

 was a very big trout, and the thought of him 

 brings back memories of nearly every fishing 

 day of last year's season. The glamour of a 

 long campaign between us, which ended in a 



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