66 GOLDEN DAYS 



gi'eater trout lies under the shadow of 

 a may-tree sucking down flies, while our 

 own is fixed firmly in the lowest branch a 

 foot above his neb. If only we dared to 

 break off that fly. The slightest pull on 

 the Ime is certain to scare the fish and put 

 him down, but it is our last resort. We 

 try it, snapping the cast just as the fish 

 turns after his rise. He has not seen us. 

 He is still feeding ! On all fours we 

 creep back to the safety of the long 

 grass. Hurriedly we adjust a fresh fly, 

 while every nerve is strung, our fingers 

 trembling. Surely there is something 

 primitive and pagan about all this, yet it is 

 delightful all the same. 



Then, too, there is that sensuous and 

 very human feeling which possesses a man 

 after a long day's fishing. He has dined. 

 He is very tired, but he still retains an 

 extraordinary consciousness of well-being. 

 His slippered feet are warmed by a 

 generous wood-fire, and he remembers I 

 . . . No need to fetch that gleaming dish 

 of fish reposing in the dim coolness of the 

 larder. He has them all. That big trout 

 in rough water nearly weeded him, and 



