76 
THE PISHING GAZETTE 
were hardly up to the takeable size, and I lost three 
or four good ones, mostly from bad luck or 
otherwise, which I think will show that the 
Thames trout will take the fly. I have heard it 
said that the barges and tugs drive the trout 
out of the river, but I think this notion is quite 
wrong, for the reason that the barges passing up 
and down the river keep the channel clean; and 
on looking down on a clear day, you can see the 
bed of the river beautifully clean and bright. 
Now that is just what the trout like, especially if 
there is any weed at the side as a place of refuge. 
I have seen trout, directly a barge has passed, 
throw themselves over and over in the wash 
made by the barge, as it they seemed to enjoy it. 
Some few years back I had a small hatchery on 
the banks of the Thames, and having purchased 
from Ford, of Caistor, a few thousand yearlings— 
and fine fish they were too—I kept a few in a 
tank in my garden for some little time, four or 
five of which I turned into the Thames, also a 
thousand or more trout fry. The yearling fish 
could be seen on any hot day, laying on the 
gravel at the spot I turned them in, and I have 
sat in my punt and watched them; they were 
quite masters of the situation, and would drive 
away any other fish that came near them. One 
day I thought I would like to see how they were 
getting on, so I asked a man with a oast-net to 
catch me a couple, and after I had inspected 
them in a glass globe, I returned them safely 
to the water. They were there the next 
day, and none the worse for their removal. 
On the following year a boy dipping about 
with a well-net tied on to the end of a mop- 
handle, caught some half dozen young trout 
close to the place where I turned the fry in. 
No doubt these fish were the proceeds of the fry 
I turned in the previous year ; and a boy fishing 
opposite the spot where I turned in the yearling 
trout caught a nice little trout of nearly half a 
pound, which I carefully unhooked and returned 
to the water; his tackle consisted of a piece of 
string, a stick, and a large lucky stone ; bait, a 
worm, and his mode of fishing was to pick up the 
stone and throw it into the water with one hand, 
holding the stick in the other. I must tell you 
that it would be difficult to find a spot more dis¬ 
turbed than where I turned in these trout, as 
boats are constantly landing there, and the boys 
coming out of school make a point of seeing how 
many stones they can throw into the water from 
the gravel heaps close by. I think this will 
clearly show that trout do not take much notice 
of the river being disturbed, also that fish turned 
in will thrive. Why should not the Thames be 
made a first-class trout water ? It is a fine river 
with plenty of spawning ground, also there is 
little or no pollution, and no fear of the fish being 
killed wholesale from the waste from mills, 
mines, &c. And, again, there are no netting 
rights on the lower Thames, with the exception of 
the netting below Kew, there is also always a 
good flow of water, thus making the river more 
or less always in fishing order. The carnivorous 
fish in the Thames have of late years greatly de¬ 
creased, so there is not much to fear from them ; 
there is also any quantity of food for the trout 
in the shape of minnows and bleak, also a very 
prolific rise of the grannom, alder, May, stone, 
sedge, and other flies in their season; and there 
is plenty of room in the river for trout without 
in any way elbowing out the coarse fish. And, 
again, when the river is most charming in 
the spring there is no coarse fishing; in fact, 
in my opinion, there is no coarse fishing till 
August, as the fish are not clean till then 
and worth taking, thus leaving four of the best 
months of the year open only for trout fishing. 
The early mornings on the river are most charm¬ 
ing, as there is little or no traffic to disturb the 
fishing then, and also the evenings early in the 
season. One does not get much disturbed by the 
traffic unless it is close to a village. The banks 
also allow plenty of room for the fly-fisherman, 
also for spinning, as there are few obstructions to 
be met with in the shape of trees, &e. The river 
is also large enough to afford ample fly-fishing 
from boats, thus giving fishing to those who are 
unable to stand tbe exertion of bank fishing. As 
I believe there are hundreds of trout fishermen 
who would hail with delight anything done to 
improve the trout-fishing in the Thames, I hope 
very shortly to form a society for the improve¬ 
ment of the trout-fishing, and hope to have a 
liberal response from those interested in the 
welfare and improvement of the trout-fishing in 
our beautiful river.—Yours, &c., 
Pbnton Hook. 
[After correspondence and personal interviews 
with “ Fenton Hook,” we feel convinced that 
there is a splendid field for a “ Lower Thames 
Trout-fishing Improvement Association,” and 
have undertaken to assist in forming such an 
association. We hope to see the day when it will 
be no uncommon thing for bank anglers, as well 
as punt anglers, to take Thames trout.— Ed.]. 
BLACK MONDAY. 
Bv C. H. W. 
Maky a time have I asked myself this ({uestiou: 
Why is Monday such an unlucky day in my angling 
career? For, strange to say, it is the blackest 
of all black days I ever experience; nothing 
ever seems to go rightly. I can only look back 
to one or two successful Mondays in all the years 
I have been an angler : one when I landed a trout 
near Staines, and another when a friend (who is 
now in Africa, and writes me long letters about 
huge barbel) went with me roach fishing in a 
certain Norfolk broad that shall be nameless, and 
caught several stone of roach during the day. 
The remembrance of my Mondays still rankles in 
my bosom, and I will be selfish and not breathe a 
word respecting the broad’s locality. 
Why do the fish refuse to feed on Mondays ? 
Is it because the mill-streams are loosed again, 
with an increased volume of water? or is it 
simply because the day is proverbially a black 
one ? The answer is- 
One April Monday above all others I have cause 
to remember. My friend T. wrote to say he 
wanted a day in the punt with me, and that he 
would be down on the Monday following. I wrote 
back, warning him of the consequences of angling 
on such a day, but my letter was treated with 
contempt, T. turning up on the fatal morning as 
fresh as a lark, nowise discouraged by the fact 
that he lost his railway ticket on the way down, 
and was duly mulcted in consequence. 
We started off, and punted up to Chertsey 
Weir; the last part of the way against a terrific 
wind and stream. Getting into the cut above 
the lock, we tried three separate times 
to roach the weir before success crowned our 
efforts. Each time we miscalculated the force of 
the wind. No sooner did I turn the punt from 
the towing-path and get fairly into the middle of 
the river, than bang came a huge gust, spinning 
the punt round like a top, and back we went, 
yards and yards, to go through all the hard work 
again. The first time this happened we nearly got 
broadside on, and over tbe falls. At last we 
decided to go nearly up to Laleham, and then, 
perhaps, we should hit the weir all right. No 
sooner were we well above the weir, than the wind 
dropped right away, and we punted down to the 
weir head, thinking we were bewitched. I have 
it. That gipsy boy cast his evil eye on us for 
not allowing him to tow us up from Shepperton. 
However, we certainly succeeded in making all 
fast at last, and began putting the tackle together. 
When looking for the end of the running line, I 
found out that someone had evidently been trying 
how easily a Nottingham winch runs, and had 
cobbled all the line up finely. It had been wound 
up on one side of the winch, and had then slipped 
Over. The end had to be carefully drawn through 
at least twenty times before we got the line clear. 
Then, after the spinning tackle was knotted on, 
1 dropped the tackle box, and nearly all the 
others fell out into the punt (luckily, not into the 
water), and wound themselves together in an 
almost inextricable mass. I was so “ riled ” by 
this time that I just popped them into an empty 
box, to be sorted out on some future occasion. A 
bait was the next thing required. Where is the 
hand net ? “ Oh. lent it to Jones, on Saturday; he 
didn’t return it.” So there was the fun of fishing 
about with cold fingers to catch a lively bleak in 
a large punt well. After getting plenty of Thames 
water up my sleeve, I succeeding in securing one, 
and triumphantly knocked him on the head. 
“This is all right for a Monday, eh ?” I say. 
“ Well, you said how it would be, but I only laugb 
at such nonsense.” 
The very first run down, bang comes a huge 
[February 4, 1893 
trout at the bait, simply tearing it to shreds, but, 
of course, missing the hooks. “ Don’t say what 
you are thinking, old man; I can’t stand any 
more just at present! ” I say to my friend. His 
face was a caution, and if mine expressed what I 
felt, I am sorry for it. I successfully landed 
another bait out of the well, then fished for an 
hour and a half in dogged silence; not a ghost of 
a trout anywhere, and not so much as a bleak in 
the weir. Suggestions of lunch being mildly 
made, I remark, spitefully, that 1“ had come out 
to fish, not to feed ; ” but, being a tender-hearted 
man, and anxious to trwit my old friend kindly, I 
relent, and, in winding in, cleverly succeeded in 
hooking the largest stump in the whole weir, and, 
after sawing and pulling for some time, lost the 
trace—gut, swivels, lead, bait, hooks, and all! 
“ Pretty sport, trouting, ain’t it ? ” I remark. 
The committee then adjourned for lunch, as 
the story-books say. Such trifling matters as the 
salt blowing into our eyes, the corkscrew being 
mislaid, one bottle of beer sour, and no mustard 
anywhere, seemed hardly worthy of notice; our 
crowning triumph was that we had plenty of 
lights; however we managed to bring any, to 
this day passes my understanding. During lurich 
it came on to rain; nice, cold rain, combined with 
hail, which beat a tattoo on our plates; T. sug¬ 
gested that it would keep the vegetation back, 
as the season was, perhaps, a little too much 
advanced. This idea comforted us both wonder- 
fully. 
He started “washing up,” flicking sundry 
pieces of fat pensively into the river with a knife; 
then he stood up, and carefully placed the heel 
of his boot on the top of both the spinning and 
fly rods, cracking them short off ! This disaster 
fairly cowed us for a time, but, after a long 
search in the locker, I routed out the cobbler’s 
wax aud silk, cut fre.sh splices, and whipped them 
roughly together again. 
Just then we were hailed by a shepherd, and 
decided to punt up to the meadow to improve 
his acquaintance. “ Any sport, gents ? ”—“ Oh, 
lots,” was our cheerful reply, “ but no fish.”— 
“Would yer like ter see a socking trout? I 
knows where he be.”—We joyfully assent. Pros¬ 
pects of sport arise, our woes are all forgotten, 
and our hearts expand, replying to the warmth 
exhibited by our newly-found friend. “ You 
hain’t got a bit o’ bacca, gents, I s’pose ? ” “ Oh, 
yes; help yourself. Have a glass of beer ? ” The 
shepherd, nothing loth, sits down in the punt, 
and consumes a bottleful, filling a dirty pipe tbe 
while. “Now, sir, bring yer tackle, and give mo 
the bait-kettle, and come along ; master’s a rare 
rum ’un to stop anyone on his land, but it’ll be 
all right so long as yer comes wi’ me” We feel 
humbled by such kindness, and T. feels in his 
pocket for a sixpence, but can find nothing less 
than a shilling, which he conveys to the horny- 
handed son of toil, while I discreetly “ look the 
other way.” 
“ This here fish be a rare artful one, sir; he 
wants some catching” (we truly think this, as, 
after a long walk, the shepherd leads us to a 
large ditch); “ there be the place he bides in ”— 
a muddy hole, where no trout was ever seen. 
Too late we find wo are sold, but, fearing 
“master” on the way back, make no remarks to 
that effect, but cheerfully acquiesce in the state¬ 
ment, “He bain’t theer just naow,” and wend 
our mournful way back to the punt, two sad and 
sorry men; the shepherd remarking that he is 
“ rarely surprised we didn’t see ’un.” 
Never again will I listen to wily shepherds’ 
tales; once bitten, twice shy; no tale about a 
“ socker ” shall ever tempt me again from the 
strict path of duty. We have another long try 
at the weir as we go down stream, without any 
success. We narrowly escape being run down by 
a steam launch, which comes puffing out of the 
lock, and politely wants to know “ what we are a 
doing.” We reply, facetiously, that “we ain’t 
doing nothink,” and confide our varied woes to 
the lock keeper, who sympathizes, and thereby 
sells us ginger beer, which we don’t want. We 
punt home again, and at Shepperton are joyfully 
informed by Smith, the genial lock keeper, that 
“another beauty has just been landed at the 
weir.” 
This finishes us, and we firmly resolve, never, 
never to fish again on a black Monday. Strange 
to say, the next ^Monday finds T. and myself 
at Sunbury, hearing wonderful tales of a “ big 
