In the run which she infests there is a tremendous trout. He is always there. I cannot drive him away. He is that kind of trout. Now and then he takes a fly. He never takes mine. That is the sort of trout he is. He amuses himself at my expense.
Very well.
I arrive within casting distance of this humorist. I cast. The little grayling hurls herself upon my fly. She is without reverence or fear. The great trout cannot inspire her with awe. The smack of my fly upon the water cannot alarm her. Because I am half blind and hope that the trout has risen, I strike, and the little grayling is somewhere in the meadow. I detach her from my hook with infinite trouble, place her in the water and cast again. The little grayling is already waiting to receive my fly.
I fancy that she is subsidised by the trout to annoy me.
You have no conception of the irritation that this little grayling causes me.
To-morrow I shall torture her.
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Generally, then, of these little graylings, I will say this. They are the most contemptible of fishes. They are deceivers, raisers of false hopes, liars.
