An Angler's Puradise. 37 
trout for the lake, being part of a much larger number put into it 
by the energetic lessee, G. Ward, Esq., of Bala, whose genial 
face was visible on the platform as the train glided alongside 
with its precious freight. 
I had breakfasted ex route, and therefore, after seeing the 
fish carefully transferred to the waggons that were waiting for 
them, Mr. Ward and I drove off, to do the twelve miles that 
intervened between us and our destination. The air was fresh 
and balmy and still smelt of the morning, as it was wafted, by the 
delightfully cooling breezes, round hilly corners covered with 
enchanting foliage, and over flower-decked meads hemmed in by 
densely wooded slopes. Between the little chats on fish and 
kindred matters, with which we enlivened the journey, I had time 
to look around and to enjoy the beauty and freshness of the 
scene. The plaintive cooing of the dove (Columba palumbus) 
was heard as we passed through belts of woodland, and at one 
bend of the road the harsh scream of the jay (Garrulus glan- 
darius) resounded through groves of oak and hazel, while the 
little tits (Parus major and ceruleus) cried “ze zrrr,” as they 
hung suspended from the twigs on which they searched the buds 
for insects. All Nature seemed alive and in her gayest garb. Even 
the butterflies upon the flowers looked fresh and beautiful, except 
Vanessa, fluttering round a stone heap; where she flickered her 
bedraggled wings, that told of hybernation and the clammy chills 
of winter, past and gone. Beneath us lay a trout stream, in 
places almost hidden from the gaze of man by vegetation of the 
richest kind that grows in those parts. 
Our conversation was of trout, varied with little bits of 
history, natural and otherwise, but like a famous member of the 
feline race, of which I’ve heard in song, it would “come back” 
again to trout, their culture and their means of capture. Thus 
we found ourselves at length upon the mountains, where the 
curlew called at distant intervals. We crossed the dashing moorland 
stream, on which the dipper makes his home. The height we 
have come over is upwards of 1,000 feet above the level of the 
sea, and the descent into the valley, which we now must cross, is 
sharp, and by a zig-zag path cut out ofa hillside. "Tis well our 
leader is sure footed, for as it is, the traveller who is unaccustomed 
