A SPRING FISHING 11 



plump, plump, so pleasant to the ear of 

 a fisherman, accompanied by that oily 

 bubble in the shadow of the far bank, and 

 those widening circles on the water which 

 denote a feeding trout. 



Not a fish had shown itself, and, natur- 

 ally, a floating fly was useless. I had 

 changed a wet fly many times to no purpose, 

 and was now fishing down stream, sinking 

 my line as much as possible, and exploring 

 each eddy and likely hole as I reached it. 

 Though I worked ceaselessly, not a touch 

 did I get. The fish were evidently quite 

 off the feed ; the banks in many places 

 were flooded ; my feet were wet, and I 

 was cold and rather disheartened. The 

 glint had gone out of the sunlight. The 

 magpie's note seemed now ironical. Surely 

 they realised the absurdity of throwing an 

 artificial bunch of feathers to catch a 

 visionary fish. Those cackling birds were 

 cursed as I slowly climbed the steep hill- 

 side, the water squelching in my boots at 

 every step. Under a menhir'Stone, I took 

 them off. Here, at least, was a suntrap 

 where tobacco would taste good. Young 

 ferns made a comfortable resting-place on 



