Very likely the grayling weighs three or four pounds—for only at this season do the very largest feed. She is a glorious fish. To exhibit such a fish at the end of the day would, in September, make your name. In June, however, it would cover you with infamy. Of this the grayling is perfectly well aware.
She is quite comfortable. She knows herself safe. She is in no hurry. You cannot leave her. She prolongs the experience, slowly moving her mouth, slowly opening and closing her gills.
If you were not a fool and a sportsman you would beat her on the skull and throw her in a bed of nettles. If you were Blennerhassett you would call her an out-of-condition trout.
But you prop her up between two reeds.
Deliberately she turns over.
The trout go on rising.
At last she finds the fun begin to pall, and with a sluggish movement slips from between your hands and sinks to the gravel sulkily. You are free of her.
You now find that the rise of May-fly is over.
The last insect is coming down stream. A large fish takes it. You throw to it. It takes your fly.
It is another grayling.
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