194 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
scarlet poppies, or the “ stubbles dotted o’er with 
sheaves.” In autumn, of course, nature’s hues 
are so wonderful that a day stolen from fishing 
for a country walk is not regretted. The pursuit 
of grayling on the morrow will be all the more 
enjoyed. It is noticeable how often one’s wander- 
ings on these “off days” bring one to the old 
grey church which is so essential a feature of 
rural England. Mellowed by time, with the 
atmosphere of centuries of prayer and praise about 
its ancient stones, the old village church is a 
refreshment to mind and soul. Izaak Walton 
must have spent many hours in and about the 
precincts. 
When fishing one must obviously take the 
luck of the game as it comes. The more cheer- 
fully this is recognized, the more is the enjoyment. 
Laughter is a good cure for misfortune, if you can 
apply it. Itcalls for some measure of philosophy, 
but the thing is possible. I remember one ex- 
cellent fisherman, a parson, who told me of an 
unfortunate day in Natal when he lost fish after 
fish, an unusual thing for him, but at last got 
hold of a big one which was well hooked and felt 
like a certainty. And then the gut, frayed perhaps 
by earlier contests, parted and the fish was gone. 
“It had been such a run of disasters,” said he, 
“all the afternoon, and this was the climax. I 
just burst out laughing.” 
Sometimes the trout rise freely but with 
singular consistency every fish may be missed or 
only just pricked. Possibly one fails to strike at 
