THE TROUT OF THE MOOR. 21 



from casting his lure until the stream has resumed that pale-ale 

 tint so beloved of the fly-fisherman. 



There is magic in the memory of the days spent amid the age- 

 long moorland solitudes. Withal, they are not days of lounging and 

 luxury ; rather are they days of toil, from beginning to end toil 

 of the healthiest and pleasantest kind, yet frequently difficult 

 and strenuous. But they are days spent amid the freedom of 

 wild valleys ; the broad sweep of massive hills ; the splendour 

 of sunlight and shadow ; the glory of sundown ; the smell of the 

 moist peat ; the perennial prattle of mountain waters : they are 

 days marked by the exhilarating dash of the little brown trout at 

 the end of the line ; the adventurous scramble over rocks ; the 

 company of the friendly " dipper " ; the long walk back to the inn 

 in the gloaming ; and, last but not least to certain natures, the 

 crowning mercy of solitude. 



Ofttimes, during his exile in great cities, the angler yearns 

 to hear again the music of moorland streams. Down the vista of a 

 broad thoroughfare, bordered by towering buildings, he beholds a 

 glimmer of a sunset sky. Overhead is the azure of heaven's mystic 

 dome ; a frail wisp of fleecy cloud hovers suspended in space. 

 The " wild " sounds its stirring call. And the angler longs again to 

 wander, with his rod, beside the waters of the wilderness. 



