A SPRING FISHING 3 



but there is one, a lean old Marquis^ a 

 keen sportsman in his day, now barbless 

 and bedraggled, yet a proud fly still. 

 These rarely walk beside the river with us 

 now, but bide at home in their snug, 

 mellow parchment, dozing upon a shelf 

 beside the studio fire. 



There are, too, those blank days, which 

 then seemed tragedies, wherein we toiled 

 and worried and jw^^ missed. There are 

 those farmhouse teas — the fortifying cake 

 and jam that, reviving futile hopes, en- 

 couraged us to go out and try again. 



Of course, being human, we all like to 

 catch fish ; and yet, is it not the desire 

 to catch rather than the catching which is 

 more than half the fun ? You remember 

 that evening when at the mill bridge we 

 took our rods apart ? Our creels were not 

 too heavy. Just below us in the meadow 

 rabbits came out to frisk and take supper 

 in the evening light ; across the river the 

 willow-trees loomed big, the mists were 

 stealing up the valley . . . Lord ! what a 

 long walk home we had. ... And that 

 day in June, that glorious sweltering day, 

 when all the fish came short — yet not quite 



