42 GOLDEN DAYS 



trees to watch. Old Kleydan, the miller, 

 crouched on his sabots at my side. His 

 brand-new beaver hat bobbed and gesticu- 

 lated wildly ; in fact, his whole raiment, 

 though doubtless it did honour to the 

 saint's day, was quite unsuited to the 

 river-bank. I trembled lest he should 

 disturb those bubbles. But they con- 

 tinued while fly after fly was changed, 

 given its trial beneath the bramble patch, 

 and then discarded for another pattern. 

 At last I rigged up on a No. 6 hook a 

 brazen creature of tinsel, feathered with 

 blue and scarlet. This was in sheer 

 desperation, and yet, if the trout could 

 stand old Kleydan*s embroidered waist- 

 coat, surely my cheerful creature would 

 not scare him. At the second cast he had 

 it well under water, and amidst acclama- 

 tion was he landed — an ill-conditioned 

 four-pound chub. No, the Arz is not a 

 river for the fly-fisherman, yet there are 

 trout in some of its smaller tributaries. 

 Moreover, upon its banks there stands 

 a mill (perhaps the eighty- second from 

 the sea) wherein they sell delicious spark- 

 ling cider at four sous the litre. You 



