Hal.—You have, I am sure, gentlemen, dined well; no one ever dined otherwise in this house. It is a beautiful calm evening, and many fish might be caught where we fished in the morning; but I will take you to another part of the river; you shall each catch a fish, and then we will give over; for the evening’s sport should be kept till a late season,—July or August,—when there is little fly on in the day-time: and it would be spoiling the diversion of our host, to catch or prick all the fish in the upper water; and with a gentleman so truly liberal, and so profuse of his means of giving pleasure to others, no improper liberties should be taken. I shall not fish myself, but shall have my pleasure in witnessing your sport. It must be in a boat, and you must steal slowly up the calm water, and glide like aerial beings on the surface, making no motion in the water, and showing no shadow. Your fly must be an orange or brown palmer with a yellow body; for the gray drake is not yet on the water. The fish here are large, and the river weedy, so you must take care of your fish and your tackle.
Poiet.—We have at least passed over half-a-mile of water, and have seen no fish rise; yet there is a yellowish or reddish fly in the air, which moves like a drake; and there are clouds of pale brown flies encircling the alders. Now I think I see a large trout rise below that alder.
Hal.—That is not a trout, for he rises in a different place now, and is probably a large roach or chub; do not waste your time upon him. You may always know a large trout when feeding in the evening. He rises continuously, or at small intervals,—in a still water almost always in the same place,—and makes little noise,—barely elevating his mouth to suck in the fly, and sometimes showing his back-fin and tail. A large circle spreads around him, but there are seldom many bubbles when he breaks the water, which usually indicate the coarser fish: we will wait a few minutes; I know there must be trout here, and the sun is setting, and the yellow fly, or dun cut, coming on the water. See, beneath that alder is a trout rising, and now there is another thirty yards higher up. Take care, get your line out in another part of the water, and in order, for reaching the fish, and do not throw till you are sure you can reach the spot, and throw at least half-a-yard above the fish.
Orn.—He rose, I suppose, at a natural fly, the moment before my fly touched the water.
Hal.—Try again. You have hooked him, and you have done well not to strike when he rose. Now hold him tight, wind up your line, and carry him down the stream. Push the boat down stream, fisherman. Keep your fish’s head up. He begins to tire,—and there is landed. A fine well-fed fish, not much less than 4lbs. Throw him into the well. Now, Poietes, try that fish rising above,—and there are two more.
Poiet.—I have him!
Hal.—Take care. He has turned you, and you have suffered him to run out your line, and he is gone into the weeds under the willow: let him fall down stream.
Poiet.—I cannot get him out.
Hal.—Then wind up. I fear he is lost, yet we will try to recover him by taking the boat up. The line is loose: he has left the link entangled in the weeds, and carried your fly with him. He must have been a large fish, or he could not have disentangled himself from so strong a gut. Try again, there are fish now rising above and below; where the water is in motion, opposite that willow, there are two fish rising.
Poiet.—I have one of them.