86 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
Lord Salisbury encamped on the eve of his 
victorious fight at Blore Heath; and on to 
Buntingsdale, whose squire is an experienced 
fly-fisherman. 
Stoke-on-Tern, a couple of miles further on, 
was formerly the most peaceful of hamlets ; now 
it has an aerodrome. The river winds to Crudg- 
ington, Longden-on-Tern, and Walcot, by many 
a peaceful home, and through rare meadows, and 
flows on its unabated course, always gliding past, 
yet never gone, always the same little river 
(except when the great floods come), until it has 
completed its business at Atcham, where it merges 
its waters into those of the Severn, and so makes 
for Bristol and the sea. 
As I have tried to show, the Tern is a good trout 
stream and it holds some big fish here and there ; 
I have.met them once or twice, and the first was 
that monster of my boyhood. It was a brief affair 
though, all over in a few seconds. I was in a kind 
of trance, conscious only of a big trout at the end of 
a long line rolling about on the surface. But last 
year, about thirty years later, and not far from the 
same spot, I “ had one on,” and lost him. It was 
in August, a little earlier in the evening than the 
rise usually begins. I saw a heaving of the water 
ahead, and I thought a cannibal trout was chasing 
minnows. When I came to the place I threw, the 
fly fell, and, hey presto! here, there, and every- 
where was a trout dashing about. The rod was a 
stout one, the tackle sound, so there was nothing 
to fear on these scores; but the weeds were heavy 
