OUR OPENING DAY. ii 



not unfriendly to me, personally, but they pity luy weakness 

 for fly-fishing. I dote on our victorious young comrade of 

 the weir, but nothing could induce me to toil throughout the 

 live-long day spinning for aj^brace of trout, if the chance 

 remained for me of a dozen troutlets fairly killed with 

 the artificial fly. Each man to his liking, and good luck to 

 us all : that is our motto. 



When we turn out of the next meadow, in whose trenches 

 a few weeks hence will blow — 



" The faint sweet cuckoo flowers," 

 and where — 



" The wild marsh marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows grey," 

 look straight at the rustic bridge spanning the ford, and 

 you will see a couple of fellows lounging upon the hand 

 rail. They are poaching rascals on the watch for the 

 prowling trout that push up from the wider water below 

 to chase the small fry on the shallows, and when the sun. 

 comes that way it would be worth while spiking your rod 

 into the coltsfoot-covered bank, lighting another cigar, 

 creeping stealthily behind the willow bushes, and watching 

 the actions and habits of the fish. Such time is never 

 thrown away, and you will soon discover that the fish are 

 not unworthy of your inquiring study. As to the hulking: 

 scoundrels beyond, after nightfall there will be a splash 

 and a struggle, and an hour later the poachers will pro- 

 bably be offering a couple of handsome trout for sale at 

 some village pothouse. 



Across a bit of young wheat, down a lane where v/e 

 could find a posy of white violets if we had the leisure 

 to pluck them out of their modest retirement, and we 

 reach the narrow winding streamlet where, fortune favouring 



