244 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
"Berg way in any numbers, Yet there they 
were. It was a half-pounder only, but as he 
entered the landing net, he seemed enough and 
pretty enough to revive “the magical rites of 
reminiscence.” He was taken on a fly called the 
“ butcher ”—unromantic name, simply suggestive 
of slaying. Why could it not have been called 
somebody or other’s Fancy? Killing fly as it is, 
it does not always score. Mr. David Smythe, a 
son of a former Premier of Natal, told me he 
was out the previous afternoon with two flies on 
his cast, the butcher and the woodcock-wing-and- 
hare’s-ear. The fly which did all the business 
was the woodcock-and-hare’s-ear ; the butcher 
had no orders at all from the trout. That after- 
noon Mr. Smythe landed seven trout, weighing 
thirteen pounds. A fine basket they must have 
been, judging by the brace I saw, after the other 
five fish had been distributed among neighbours. 
They were caught in a reach which lies, roughly 
speaking, between Kamberg and Rosetta. 
I only paid a brief visit to the river in the 
morning when the butcher had claimed my first 
trout, and did not fish again until sundown, when 
No. 2 came to the net, a fitting mate for the 
other. Colour was lent to its capture because it 
was foul-hooked on the head-side of the dorsal 
fin. It played very gamely, as all trout thus 
oddly hooked do. Higher up, but still below 
the picturesque Falls, trout occur in plenty, but 
it is a case of (to venture on parody) : 
“‘ With here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a scaly,” 
