From Fox's Earth 



hope that the trout will disregard it, the bag- 

 nets can in nowise be risked. Were the weeds 

 removed, the poacher would hear of it next day, 

 and appear next night. Clear of weeds, the 

 stream would soon be clear of trout. Better to 

 bear the ills we have, than fly to others which we 

 know quite well 



From either side, half rings broaden out, to 

 merge in the middle. The bigger trout are rising 

 along the edge of the weeds. They are not all 

 engaged down below. Crustacean and mollusc 

 are not enough. The winged insect has the 

 olden attraction. That grey-winged half-spinner 

 rises a few feet in the air, and, as he dips 

 again to the surface, is engulfed. A fresh series 

 of rings break out. If art could only imitate 

 that dip, and there be no lack in the skill of the 

 maker of the fly! The weeds are so far an 

 advantage. They veil all of the line save that 

 which bears the end hook. Another turn of the 

 reel, or a step back into the pasture field, to get 

 the exact length. Just a yard above where that 

 last fly went down, mine has gone down after 

 it. Either the trout will come out, or to hook 

 it was worth the cast. 



Sand martins are scouting up and down, catch- 

 ing, on the rise, those spinners which trout secure 

 on the dip. Between the two is little chance of 

 escape. Both are eager on a grey-blue fly. The 

 bird swerves, as though he meant something, but 



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