A rWEEDSWE SKETCH 125 



all overgrown with trees, with bracken, with 

 bramble. It is a bo3''s work to disentangle the 

 fly from the branches of ash and elm and pine. 

 There is no delicacy, and there is a great deal of 

 exertion in all this. You do r.ot cast subtilely 

 over a fish which )'ou know is tlierc, but you 

 swish, swish, all across the current, \\\W\ a strong 

 reluctance to lift the line after each venture and 

 try another. The small of the back aches, and 

 it is literally in the sweat of your brow that )-ou 

 take your di\"ersion. After all, there are many 

 blank days, when the salmon will look at no fly, 

 or when you encounter the Scilino irn'taiis, who 

 rises with ever)' appearance of earnest good-will, 

 but never touches the hook, or, if he does touch 

 it, runs out a couple of yards of line, and vanishes 

 for ever. What says the poet .? 



There's an accommodating fish, 



In pool or stream, by rock or pot, 

 Who lises frequent as you wish, 



At 'Popham,' 'Parson,' or ' Jocl^ Scott,' 

 Or almost any fly you've got 



In all the furred and feathered clans. 

 You strike, but ah, you strike him not. 



He is the Salino irrilaiis ! 



