WHARFEDALE. 127 



for the Hall, but without success. Strapped to his back, in 

 lieu of the orthodox creel, he carries a wooden box fashioned 

 as closely as possible to imitate a fishing basket. He made 

 it himself, and his rod and line were also the work of his 

 own hands. They are heavy and rough, it is true, but in 

 his grasp they can be made to do all that is necessary. He 

 purposely uses a large heavy line, with which alone, he says, 

 you can fish thoroughly against wind. It is astonishing to 

 see. how lightly, easily, accurately, and to what distance he 

 casts his flies with that clumsy sixteen feet rod painted 

 green, and that heavy horsehair line. 



His casting lines are of a kind peculiar to the Wharfe, I 

 believe. He uses nothing but horsehair, beginning with 

 four or five strands and gradually lessening the bulk until 

 the last eighteen inches of the four yards are single hair. 

 He never fishes with less than five flies, tied by himself 



" He shakes tlie boughs that on the margin grow, 

 "Which o'er the stream a waving forest throw, 

 Wlien if an insect fall (his certain guide), 

 He gently lakes him from the whirling tide, 

 Examines well his form with curious eyes, 

 His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, his size ; 

 Then round the hook the chosen fur he winds. 

 And on the back a speckled feather binds ; 

 So just the colours shine through every part. 

 That nature seems to live again in art." 



There is a grey pony in the neighbourhood, I am told, 

 whose long tail has been quite a small fortune to its owner 

 during the last fifteen years, and a local wag says the gray- 

 ling give over rising the moment the animal which has 

 contributed so long to their family death-roll comes down 

 to the margin to drink. The keeper is not prepared to 



