is shut into outer darkness by paralysis. To an angler the river beloved is really like nothing else.
And when he is by—when, that is, we are by by him—what good times we have! How we vary the sport! His population, I have said, is always rising. Each of those dimples is made by a fish that one has risen, played, and landed. And—this is the peculiar advantage of the situation—always those fishes are ready to be risen, played, and landed again. No day, not even memory's, is long enough to grass the fishes of five seasons. So one picks and one chooses, taking one here, one there, passing others by, reserving them for other occasions. They will not desert their places.
Does our pleasure demand a rise of Mayfly? What fishing we can cram into a couple of hours! Thirty trout, and the balance dips to 70 lb. And we might have done still better, but this is enough for good sportsmen such as we and the river are. Or do we feel that a clear October day would be well spent among the grayling? It is at our service. The woods are bravely decked out in honour of the occasion. The sun is warm; the air is cold. The fish rise foolishly, and our take is colossal. Especially in the long deeps of the Still Reach do the great head-and-tailers break the
