IN THE BEGINNING 5 
sun gave it of his favour, and wavelets here and 
there danced and sparkled with joy. 
And so in time came the third stage with 
all its interests, fishing in a river which held 
Trout. The career of this little river, the Tern, 
from its modest source in Staffordshire to its 
conjunction with the majestic, sober-flowing Severn 
in Shropshire, I have tried to trace in another 
chapter. A kind landowner had, through his 
agent, given us boys permission to fish his length. 
Most grateful thanks are herein tendered, with a 
warmth which cold print cannot chill, to him and 
to all such benefactors for the unalloyed pleasure 
their goodness gave us, 
The “some day” so ardently hoped for, 
which was to yield a trout, was long coming, but 
come it did. It was in the Dog Kennel meadows, 
near Market Drayton, towards the quiet, coloured 
end of a summer evening. With borrowed rod 
and tackle I had managed, at long last and after 
much thrashing of the waters, to get a rise to the 
fly. It seemed too good to be true. With every 
ounce of strength I struck, and forthwith, far 
flung behind me, lay a little trout flopping about 
on the grass. Bliss, indeed! But was he big 
enough to keep? “The smallest trout eat 
sweetest. . . . Nobody would say anything to a 
little boy like me.” Yet had not some lofty soul 
said that the good sportsman always threw back 
little trout ?—which remark I had unfortunately 
heard. The anguish was great. My first trout ! 
The act had to be done quickly: so back into 
