112 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
the old man, like the true life-partner he seemed 
to be, had gone to see and cheer up his missus in 
hospital. She made a quick recovery, and, to the 
old fellow’s joy, was comparatively soon brought 
back safely from Kidderminster, and able to rest 
on the sofa in the front room. Their neighbour 
gave us this news of them. The Major at once 
asked him if he would take to the invalid a brace 
of the freshly-caught grayling, a kind thought 
which was just like him. 
On the table, whilst this is being written in 
London, are seven photographs of the Teme in 
the Tenbury district, taken either in October or 
November. All carry a message of woodland 
quiet, riverside peace. Two show the famous 
weir on the hotel length. Bordered by trees, the 
water falls over the weir in silvery relief. Both 
trout and grayling haunt the spot, which is a rare 
home for fish. Another has caught the wounded 
Major fishing. At this weir we watched him one 
afternoon get about ten trout and grayling—the 
trout of course being returned. We were both 
deeply interested. The photograph shows him to 
the life, with his intense keenness and concentra- 
tion. As there were but few rises, he was wet-fly 
fishing with three flies, wading on the shallow. 
Rarely was there a surface rise to his flies, but he 
got his fish all right. They took beneath the 
surface without any sign, but he hooked them 
none the less. It may be urged that trout and 
grayling often hook themselves. They do. But 
that was not the explanation this time. The 
