NOTES FROM A DIARY 158 



Gradually the roar of the storm fell away, 

 and through it rose the sound of falling 

 rain, and then the great drops were 

 measured singly, less and less, to leave at 

 last only their echo, the drip from the 

 soaked alder boughs that overhung the 

 river. 



The sun broke out on a golden world, 

 refreshed, touching all beautiful things to 

 make them new. The valley was spark- 

 ling, green, and fragrant. Far away the 

 grey hills still reverberated with the 

 whisper of the storm. 



In a near thicket a bird was singing in 

 exaltation, and, most wonderful of all, at 

 the foot of the mill-pool three trout were 

 rising steadily. 



The fish lay in mid-stream, each separ- 

 ated by a few yards of weed and deep water. 

 As my fly reached the lowest trout he 

 came at it with apparent ecstasy ; instinc- 

 tively the line tightened, the rod arched 

 and bent in those hazardous short rushes 

 toward the weed-beds, but at length the 

 fish was turned, and eventually after a 

 sharp tussle was brought to the net some 

 twenty yards lower down the bank, a 



