THE DRY FLY. 135 



see him, you watch every motion. Then you 

 see your fly too. Nothing is hid. When the 

 fly comes over him, you see him prepare to take 

 it — or treat it with stolid indifference. You 

 see him rise and take. The whole drama is 

 played out before your eyes. 



Then again you attack him when the odds are 

 most in his favour. On a hot still day in June 

 he is far more alert than on a blowing April 

 morning. He has lost the exuberance of spring. 

 The water is low and clear, and the surface 

 unruffled. Weeds are thick and handy. Your 

 gut must be the finest, your fly the smallest. 

 He is hungry, it is true, but particular. Not 

 only must your fly not fright him, it must please 

 his lazy senses. When he pokes his nose at it 

 and refuses, it may be that the reason is dainti- 

 ness, not distrust. 



His size too is an added attraction. No dry 

 fly fishing is good where fish do not run large, 

 and a big fish is a prize. Shooting gives no 

 such trophy. You do not fi,nd one grouse three 

 times the size of another, and if you did he 

 would be easier, not harder, to hit. But the 

 trout gets craftier as he gets bigger : his 

 cunning grows with his girth. 



The casting too has its fascination. On your 

 day — and such days come to all of us, to make 

 up for the many when we are either maddened 

 or drugged and stupefied by our incurable 

 ineptitude — how delicately and how surely you 

 throw. You mean your fly to fall four inches 



