A NATAL TROUT 191 



England years before, and I dare not take 

 liberties, but luckily the water is clear of all 

 obstructions and the bank on my side forms a 

 gently shelving little beach. Slowly and surely 

 does he at last respond to pressure, until his 

 head is actually aground. I get behind him 

 in the shallow water, holding up the rod and 

 keeping a gentle strain landwards, get my foot 

 slowly under him, and a heave sends him well 

 up the pebble slope. Down goes the rod, and 

 I am on my knees, grasping by the gills my first 

 Natal trout, more than double the weight of 

 any of his successors that found their way 

 from the Mooi River into my basket one of 

 those sudden turns of fortune that come to us 

 sometimes at the end of an exhausting and 

 disappointing day's fishing. 



And so homewards, past the arum lilies 

 (" pig lilies," their local name !) and the frog- 

 lets still plopping to their doom. Back through 

 the slanting sunrays, the thunderstorm rolling 

 down the valley before me, towards my com- 

 panion on his homeward way to the camp. 

 A glorious sunset, gilding the mountains in the 

 west and glowing rose-coloured over the low 

 clouds in the eastern sky, and suddenly the 

 night is upon us. A welcome and refreshing 

 tea, a tub in a canvas bath, and a long, peace- 



