192 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
the colonial girls in South Africa, who, if father 
and mother happened to be out, would take 
charge, and make friends feel at home. Their 
youthful self-possession, tact, and hospitality was 
a real live welcome. But after this Shropshire 
display—I rejoice that it happened in my own 
native county—I am pleased to be able to report 
that the Old Country is still holding its own. 
Most of us have fished on association or hotel 
water where “the feesh . . . is not so numerous 
as the feeshermen, but more wise.” I remember 
one morning casting the fly on the Coln at 
Fairford (where the trout are numerous and 
wise), just by a bridge. Looking up, I perceived 
a bystander, with a humorous eye. “Those trout 
have the names and addresses of all you gentle- 
men,” he said. An old joke, but it seemed 
fitting and fresh. Certainly, those trout made 
one think about blanks. Did one put the fly 
over them ever so temptingly, they would have 
none of it. Concerning chaff from bridges, the 
fisherman gets plenty of it. But once, at any 
rate, the biter was bit. A youthful fisherman 
planned revenge, and he won his victory oddly. 
Rigging up rod and line, he made the motions of 
fishing in an impossible ditch off the main stream, 
The inevitable “ Caught any?” soon came from 
the bridge, and he replied, “Yes.” How 
many ?” continued the questioner, to receive the 
grave response, “ Well, you're the fifteenth !” 
To revert to the Coln, which is dry-fly water, 
anglers who have fished at Fairford will remember 
