130 GOLDEN DAYS 



A day of great grey skies, of open and ' 

 unfettered country, where from time to 

 time the shadows of the rainclouds drifted 

 to leave behind warm airs and occasional 

 glints of sunshine. 



Not a fish showed or broke surface, 

 but the sport, nevertheless, was good, 

 thanks to a wet- fly fished carefully up- 

 stream in all tlie out-of-the-way crannies 

 and nooks. That is the whole art of 

 fishing this water, to keep off the beaten 

 runs of the poacher, and confine oneself to 

 the less obvious places. Here we must 

 avoid the perfect amber stickle, that on a 

 Scotch burn would be worth a brace at 

 least, and seek out the difficult corners 

 beset with snags, the unfished water 

 which lies beneath low-jutting branches, 

 the small hole under the bank surrounded 

 by weeds and brambles. In short, we 

 must fish the " impossible places," where 

 even if the fly reaches the fish and he 

 takes it, the chances are that he breaks 

 away at the first rush. Yet fate is 

 often incredibly kind in these apparently 

 unequal encounters. How often a 

 hooked fish, if not held too hard, will 



