156 GOLDEN DAYS 



There, sure enough, I found my trout 

 hard at it. First, on all fours, and very 

 tenderly, I retrieved my small hatch of 

 Dark Olive Duns. All the while the en- 

 thusiast sucked and splashed a yard below 

 my hand. Then, creeping back, the latest 

 Dun w^as fastened to the cast and pitched 

 upon the waters. My insistent friend had 

 it at once, and after a short fight he was 

 safely netted, a plump half-pounder. In 

 Brittany w^e do not return a half-pound 

 fish, nor yet a quarter-pounder. But this 

 fellow had given me so much fun. Surely 

 he should be the exception ! Besides, he 

 had kept guard and marked my Olive Duns 

 for two long hours. The Druid stones 

 loomed grey across the river. Perhaps 

 it w^as superstition. Yet might not his 

 grandsire be lured again at a more pro- 

 pitious season if I let him go. He slipped 

 between my fingers and slithered off into 

 the depths. 



Tlie shadows were lengthening down 

 the golden valley, and so I started oft 

 across-country, making a bee-line for a 

 familiar spire that in the far distance cut 

 the edge of the landes. On my return I 



I 



