THE TROUT ARE RISING 
I 
IN THE BEGINNING 
ACK-SHARPS called first. In those 
early, far-off days, only one thing in the 
wide world really mattered, jack-sharps ! 
Life concentrated on the pursuit of those 
diminutive, glittering trophies. The water was a 
vast, an imposing stream, at least a yard and a half 
wide, the “several fishery” of a farm near the 
railway station at Market Drayton, a town in 
Shropshire. How we boys toiled to get a bag 
of jack-sharps on those surreptitious, trespassing 
visits, for we had no extraneous aids, not even 
such a luxury as a butterfly net. A dry summer 
mercifully lessened the volume of the current, 
and, by means of paddling, we were able to pursue 
stray fishlets in person until, cornered under a 
stone or in some hiding-place, they were some- 
how or other secured in triumph. How enthrall- 
ing a matter is the pursuit of jack-sharps to five- 
years-old, and how precious is the property which 
has been safely committed to the glass jar, half- 
full of water, was vividly brought back to my 
B 
