156 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
fishing is a small hatchet, which he bought in 
New Zealand. If you are fishing and get caught 
up in a branch, a common misadventure, and if 
the Major is handy, you will suddenly hear a 
cheery voice singing out, “ Don’t you worry.” 
He is promptly alongside with his little hatchet, 
and, with the persevering precision of a wood- 
pecker, he strikes blow after blow at the offending 
branch until down it comes, cast and flies all 
saved. One evening on the Lid in Devonshire 
he retrieved seven flies, including a cast, for a 
friend. Two years before, in Somersetshire, he 
spent the best part of a morning cutting down 
obstructing branches, so that the fishing might be 
easier for others. He was then doing but little 
fishing himself as he was recovering from an 
operation. We spent about two months together 
in various parts of England and Scotland, and 
much hearty laughter do I owe to him. 
The Major’s humorous experiences and stories 
are well worth hearing. One, I remember, related 
to the town crier of a little Welsh town, who had 
given out, in Welsh, that some farmer had lost 
six sheep. He then proceeded to interpret it 
into English. It ran something like this (would 
that the type could reproduce tone and accent !) : 
“This is to give notice that Farmer ——-— has 
lost six sheeps ; not the sheeps that sails on the 
seas, look you! but the sheeps that you see 
feeding on the grasses |” 
The Major never seemed to monopolize the 
company ; rather, the company monopolized him. 
