A SPRING FISHING 13 



this, but a small upland stream bubbling 

 into the larger water by way of reedy 

 marshes. Its glint shone clear through 

 the pinewood on the farther bank, was 

 lost in a withy copse, and then showed 

 itself again, a ribbon of silver threading 

 the brown heather of the distant moor- 

 land ; probably too small to hold many 

 trout, but what fun to explore and see I 



While putting on my boots, the wood- 

 cutter came into view carrying a huge 

 bundle of faggots. We fell into talk, a 

 curious argot, half French, half Breton. 

 No, the fishing was never good in this river ; 

 but to-day it must be useless with the wind 

 in the very worst quarter (all fishermen 

 know this remark by heart). Monsieur has 

 caught nothing — well, that is all that can 

 be expected with the water so high. 

 Monsieur intends to try the freshet across 

 the valley ? Pure waste of time, and, 

 moreover, a tiresome walk round by the 

 way up the mill. Why, only last summer 

 that watercourse was as dry as a bone, 

 never a single fish had he, the woodcutter, 

 ever taken there. No, if I must fish, the 

 main stream was my sole chance. The 



