A SPRING FISHING 19 



fluke. I examined my coffee cup, and 

 tried not to remember a length of twisted 

 lead. Jean Pierre took a pinch of snufF 

 and chuckled. It seemed my only chance 

 of a good bag was to take to the worm in 

 the afternoon. Why, there had been not 

 a trace of a hatch of fly all day ; in fact, 

 the Mayor was prepared to lay any odds 

 against successful fly-fishing under present 

 conditions. 



I quite believed him, but I also remem- 

 bered that old woodcutter and my secret 

 purpose to explore a little stream some 

 half-mile up the valley. If chance should 

 take us in different directions, we arranged 

 that we should all eventually meet at 

 the bridge. 



We parted with mutual good wishes 

 for "tight lines," and I made my way 

 along the hillside, dipped down through 

 the withy plantation below, and came 

 out through a lichen-covered gate on to 

 rough country bordering my little stream. 

 It was, in fact, a Hampshire river in 

 miniature, golden gravelled, clear as 

 crystal, but so small that at most places 

 one could take it at a jump. As I peered 



