EPISODICAL 241 



lying dead with wings outspread on the water, and I had one 

 left. I grudged it to the bushes, but it was almost the end 

 of the season. So on it went. Four or five switches through 

 the air to get distance, and then the Willow Fly dropped 

 just a foot in front and to the outside of the spot where 

 I imagined my fish to be. Once again there was that 

 solemn consequential suck, once again the back fin and 

 the tail tip successively appeared and disappeared, and 

 then, scarcely believing in what had happened, I pulled 

 line and raised rod together (so as not to hit the tree above), 

 drawing the hook gently but firmly home. In a moment 

 my rod and line were drawn into the straight as the fish 

 tore madly up under his own bank, emptying the reel of 

 almost all its thirty-five yards of line in one streak. Then he 

 seemed to be seeking cover in a weed, and, forcing my way 

 through the bramble and other tangle, I crept up to and 

 close under the upper elm, and tried to pass round it to get 

 nearer my fish. Holding him lightly with the rod just 

 arched, I could feel him beating savagely in the weeds, and 

 presently, as he came away, I began winding him down 

 quickly with my rod well hooped, and butting him out of 

 reach of several likely-looking snags on the way down, 

 I got him at length opposite to me in deepish water, and 

 more than a little tired by his exertions. Keeping low, 

 and as much out of sight as possible, I dipped the net 

 through the herbage, and a moment later I was hoisting 

 my fish ashore. In landing him I nearly broke my rod- 

 point through the line catching in a bramble, but I saw 

 what was happening just in time. Though perfect in 

 colour, shape, and condition, deep and thick, he was not 

 a big fish — only two pounds four ounces. But I do not 

 recall many other trout the catching of which has been a 

 greater satisfaction to me than his. 

 One o'clock. 



31 



