188 THE WAY OF A TROUT WITH A FLY 



it on, and dipped it in the glycerine. A few moments after- 

 wards I heard him battling with a trout which later turned 

 the scale at two pounds one ounce. 



Meanwhile I offered my own nymph to another fish 

 which was feeding steadily. Presently he took it; but 

 though I struck firmly, the hook did not take a good hold, 

 and it came away. 



Then the entire rise ceased suddenly, and all was over 

 for the evening. 



If only we had had the sense to tie on nymph, and 

 glycerine it, at the beginning of the rise we might have 

 done great things, as all the fish out seemed big. As it 

 was we had but one fish apiece — but each took under water 

 the moment the nymph was offered him. 



THE SWITCH. 



Years before the war I sat one morning late in May at 

 breakfast under the limes in the garden of a Bavarian 

 Gasthaus by the side of a delightful limestone river 

 that teemed with trout. On the far bank the river ran 

 alongside a public road from which it was so divided 

 by a tall hawthorn hedge as to be inaccessible to the 

 angler. On my own side the limes, coming thick down 

 to the river bank, made ordinary casting impossible. 

 But under the hawthorns lay a string of trout that 

 by nine of the clock in the morning were already busy. 

 We were to be off down-stream, my friend and I, as 

 soon as breakfast was disposed of; and, to save time, 

 our rods were already assembled, our lines threaded, 

 and our casts trailing to soak in the stream, and our 

 bags were laid out on a table ready for a start. That 

 string of trout was an aggravation all through the meal, 

 and I was tempted, in an interval of delay that followed, 

 to make an effort to reach one. The stream ran from my 



