of fly-fishing, and to my fancy is the pleasantest element of success that can be used in any pursuit."[1]
The scenes in which the angler pursues his pleasant avocations are among the most delightful that Nature yields. The broad river, meandering through the meadows, here and there widening into calm and placid pools, that reflect in mirror-like perfectness the pollard-willows on the bank, and allow the eye to trace without difficulty the ruby-finned Roach and Perch, the gleaming Chub, and the speckled Trout, as they play or dart through the crystal element, cannot but be delightful; especially at that sweet season when spring is just maturing into summer, when the turf is full of scented flowers, the groves and hedges, dressed in the freshest livery of yellow-green, are pouring forth wild gushes of melody from a thousand throats, and myriads of painted flies and humming insects are enlivening the scene around. Here the bottom-fisher delights to station himself, quietly and patiently pursuing his sport until his pannier is full, or his leisure exhausted. And in such peaceful streams the more presumptuous troller spins his minnow, and calls his strength of limb and agility into exercise, as he drags from his hole the ferocious Pike.
But the fly-fisher resorts to widely different scenes. The swift torrent that pours down the mountain side, or roars along the narrow and frowning ravine; that here chafes and boils between moss-covered rocks, and there dashes over a rocky ledge in a sheet of foam; now forms a chain of
- ↑ Ephemera on Angling, p. 6.
