8 THE SONG OF THE REEL. 



feet in comfortable slippers, and, after a hearty meal, has sunk into 

 the depths of a luxurious chair, the enjoyment of the day begins to 

 take some tangible shape and form. The cosiness of the old angling 

 inn and the warmth of the bright fire have upon him a soothing 

 influence ; the exposure to the open air has endowed him with the 

 glow of health and vigour. It is then and frequently not until 

 then that he realises the glories and the pleasures of the April day. 

 Thus it often happens that the after-effects bring more enjoyment 

 than the actual experience. Yet, withal, does not this defiance of 

 the elements appeal to the more robust side of the angler's nature ? 

 To many it does ; to many, too, it does not. How trying, indeed, 

 must be our climate to the respecter of the weather ! 



I remember once enjoying exhilarating sport, four brace of 

 trout being landed, one very winterly April day. The portion of 

 the month I had spent in the " North countrie " had been char- 

 acterised by the most tantalising fickleness on the part of the 

 weather by mild and blustering breezes ; by rain, hail, sleet, thun- 

 der and lightning. But there were also the proverbial sunshine 

 and showers of the month, and rainbows of vivid hues, and times 

 when bars of sunlight and shadow chased one another across the 

 fields. Sunsets there were that irradiated the land with flaming 

 glares of crimson and scarlet sunsets bewildering by their won- 

 drous wildness and beauty. And there were nights of pallid 

 moonlight and keen frosts. 



Those anglers who are acquainted with the valley of the Yore, or 

 Ure, will have some conception of its loveliness under the varying 

 influences of the April day. Those who have stood and gazed upon 

 the river where it hurls itself over rock ledges, throwing up spray to 

 glisten in the golden April sunshine, will know its charm, and will 

 agree with Mr. Arthur Norway when he exclaims, " Ah, exquisite 

 Aysgarth ! Who would not strive and strive again to reach some 

 true expression of the fair picture which lies glowing in his memory ! 

 Words are but a palisade, through whose chinks one can, at most, 

 catch some gleam of all that beauty, and while I sit and vainly 



