40 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
at the little hotel, whose host was a real Devon 
man. They do tell, down-along there, of the 
reception which, when the war was still young, he 
gave to a young fellow who came to inquire 
about the fishing, and who loftily complained he 
had not received an answer to his letter. For 
reply the landlord, so the tale goes, gave him: 
“Us doesn’t write many letters down here, these 
times, us doesn’t, and what I wants to know is— 
why aren’t you in the Army? There’s the rivers 
down there for the fishing, and you can go and 
look at ’em for yourself!” The visitor went, 
apparently to look at ’em for himself. He did 
not return to the hotel. 
The landlord, worthy man, was a study. At 
his remote hostelry, fishermen who had been 
in almost all quarters of the globe foregathered, 
lured by the trout. Welcoming the traveller, 
he would say: “... and breakfast’s round- 
about a quarter-past nine, and if there’s not 
enough just go in the kitchen and help yourself!” 
But there was always enough, and to spare. 
What a change it was from the rush and bustle 
of ordinary town life. The guests composed just 
a large family party, a laughing family party. If 
you are hearing the Devon dialect for the first 
time, you will listen to the lilt, The meanings 
are clear, the expressions so quaint. A Devon 
gardener was asked by his mistress what colour 
the flowers of a certain plant would be, and he 
replied, knowingly : “ Her never blooms, mum 
—her never do bloom! MHer do climb up and 
