Poiet.—You give the fish credit for great sagacity.
Hal.—Call it instinct rather; for if they reasoned, they would run with every large water, whether from wind or rain. What the feeling or power is, which makes them travel with rain, I will not pretend to define. But now for our sport.
Poiet.—The fish are beginning to rise; I have seen two here already, and there is a third, and a fourth—scarcely a quarter of a minute elapses without a fish rising in some parts of the pool.
Hal.—As the day is dark, I shall use a bright and rather a large fly with jay’s hackle, kingfisher’s feather under the wing, and golden pheasant’s tail, and wing of mixed grouse and argus pheasant’s tail. I shall throw over these fish: I ought to raise one.
Poiet.—Either you are not skilful, or the fish know their danger: they will not rise.
Hal.—I will try another and a smaller fly.
Poiet.—You do nothing.
Hal.—I have changed my fly a third time, yet no fish rises. I cannot understand this. The water is not in good order, or I should certainly have raised a fish or two. Now I will wager ten to one, that this pool has been fished before to-day.
Orn.—By whom?
Hal.—I know not; but take my wager and we will ascertain.