272 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
looked like a watercress bed. A Zulu fly 
secured this trout and he weighed exactly 1 lb. 
Higher up the stream was a valley so picturesque 
that it was promptly christened Lorna Doone 
glen. Here, in mountainous surroundings, the 
water ran deeper, the trout somewhat bigger ; 
though the only real alderman touched was one 
risen by the Scotsman who, when I rejoined him 
near the spot, was saying little, but thinking 
deeply. He had hooked a big trout in a pool 
by a rock, and after he had played the fish 
for a minute or so the line came back—the hook 
had broken, Asked if he had committed himself 
verbally, he owned up like a man, and when 
some of the grief had passed away he estimated 
his fish at between 3 Ibs, and 4 lbs, 
Happy days were those spent on this farm, 
with its stretch of three or four miles of fishing ; 
and for a holiday nothing could be better than the 
wholesomeness of the country, with the peace that 
was spread over all. When caves occurred near the 
water, rock pigeons were sometimes to be heard. 
Their call (“love in search of a word’’) corre- 
sponding as it does to the cooing of the wood- 
pigeon, carried the listener to quiet English 
woods. In the Lorna Doone glen were caves on 
whose sides bushmen’s paintings were to be seen, 
wild animals, and other reminders of the chase, 
being depicted on the rude canvas. When the 
time came to leave—and we had a warm Colonial 
welcome to stay longer—it was with regret that 
we went. The kindness of our two young 
