210 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



flickering velvety black and lemon-yellow in 

 the dim light. A sweep of the net secures them. 

 A few minutes spent here for contemplation 

 before breasting the steep slope above, a pipe 

 in the cool shade, and then into the hot sun- 

 shine again. An old wooden gate, grey with 

 age and stained with orange lichen, soon breaks 

 the line of the banks. It opens on to a wide 

 expanse of luscious green clover, the distant 

 blue sea beyond it far below. The air is heavy 

 with honey-sweet scent from myriads of blos- 

 soms, pink and white. The humming of in- 

 numerable black and orange bumble-bees comes 

 through the gateway with the scent. Many 

 little blue butterflies are flitting from clover- 

 head to clover-head, and we wait for the chance 

 of the one we want, the smallest of all British 

 butterflies, the wee Bedford Blue, really more 

 brown than blue, but with a bluish gloss to 

 justify its name. Not easy to see, unless you 

 have good sight, and late in the year to find 

 them, unless we have the luck to happen upon 

 a second brood. 



As we are getting over the gate, what we 

 thought was a common Meadow Brown settles 

 in the lane and gives us a chance of better in- 

 spection. It proves to be a Grayling, not at 

 all common in these parts, and we go back to 



