From Fox's Earth 



For the angler are the same divisions as in 

 shooting. August is a precious, and somewhat 

 of a sad month. Its weeks are numbered, then 

 its days, finally its hours. And when the reckon- 

 ing is reduced to the fingers of one hand, he 

 might well pose for the " Knight of the rueful 

 countenance." To have the trout at its best and 

 yet at its latest. To be bound by that angler's 

 conscience of his, that unwritten agreement as 

 between him and his quarry, that debt of honour 

 to Nature for her largesse, not to fish after the 

 hour has struck, or the first sign of change 

 appeared. 



That last day of grey cloud and wind-chased 

 pool ; that last night of shortening twilight and 

 early-coming dark, which linger as he might 

 would come to an end. That day and night too 

 which as though to try to the utmost what 

 manner of man he was the trout rose, as they 

 had done no other day nor night for many weeks. 

 I have come with him along the shaded road, 

 entered his house, and watched him place his 

 rod on the pegs where he would see it from 

 his arm-chair all winter through, and muse 

 through the curling smoke on the last time 

 of using, when the trout rose so freely in the 

 darkening. 



Coast life in August is very full and very 

 charming. The sands are not so hot as in the 

 earlier months. The white light of July is 



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