100 GOLDEN DAYS 



throated ouzel splashed m the shadows, 

 but never once a trout. 



The stream some distance higher up is 

 fast-flowing, with shallow goils and amber 

 stickles. In turn were these all carefully 

 fished with a spent gnat, and no result. 

 Eventually I returned to sit again and 

 watch in the shade of the same willow-tree. 

 The dabchicks still bobbed up and down 

 amidst the weed to tantalise by poignant 

 hint, breaking the monotony of silence. 

 The day was very hot, the midges tiresome. 

 Jean Pierre had got my landing-net. He 

 knew perfectly well that I should need it 

 if I hooked one of these problematical 

 trout of which I had heard so much. He 

 evidently preferred to catch fingerlings. 

 By now he must have murdered some 

 dozens at least, and not a quarter-pounder 

 among the lot. I was perspiring, tired, 

 and very cross. I could not then appre- 

 ciate the fact that there are worse places 

 in which to while away the hours of such 

 a day than the green shade of that deep- 

 grassed river-bank ; but Nature was sym- 

 pathetic ; despite the gnats and heat 1 fell 

 asleep. 



