28 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
leave the old home and the little river for longer 
than you care to think. That is Life, But as 
you journey through the wilderness, there will 
be many a happy pause by the wayside if you 
have mementoes in the shape of photographs of 
the old scenes and of the old friends. I remember 
in the Anglo-Boer War, during a four-hours off on 
sentry go, finding in my haversack a little photo 
of the river Tern at Market Drayton. This 
occurred at Van Reenen’s Pass, on the borders of 
Natal and the Orange River Free State, in 1900. 
I remember, too, how the idea came, there and 
then, to set down in writing some random 
thoughts on fishing. In due course they appeared 
in the Fie/d, a little harvest from the seeds of 
Chance. 
Especially, I think, a man will cherish his 
photographs if duties cause him to be in city 
pent, in some huge town, which contains little 
to remind him of running rivers, golden meadows, 
and the smell of the country. It may be that 
after settling down in the city you can never per- 
manently leave it. But each succeeding visit to 
the country, with its few days of fishing happily 
provided for, will bring back the old sweetness, 
the old ease and peace of mind, the old joy in 
living, and each hour spent in turning over the 
leaves of the fishing album will to some extent 
have a similar result. For man has two precious 
ifts, memory and imagination. 
‘Red Spinner” in his preface to his ‘* Water- 
side Sketches” in 1885, reviewed briefly the 
