Off this place the trout rose freely, but not near so freely as in
a certain corner, quite out of reach without a boat, where the leviathans
lived and sported.
After the little expanse of open shore had been fished over a few times,
the trout there seemed to grow more shy, and there was a certain monotony
in walking this tiny quarter-deck of space. So I went round to the west
side, where the water-lilies are. Fish were rising about three yards
beyond the weedy beds, and I foolishly thought I would try for them. Now,
you cannot overestimate the difficulty of casting a fly across yards of
water-lilies. You catch in the weeds as you lift your line for a fresh
cast, and then you have to extricate it laboriously, shortening line, and
then to let it out again, and probably come to grief once more.
I saw a trout rise, with a huge sullen circle dimpling round him, cast
over him, raised him, and missed him. The water was perfectly still, and
the "plop" made by these fish was very exciting and tantalising. The
next that rose took the alder, and, of course, ran right into the broad
band of lilies. I tried all the dodges I could think of, and all that
Mr. Halford suggests. I dragged at him hard. I gave him line. I sat
down and endeavoured to disengage my thoughts, but I never got a glimpse
of him, and finally had to wade as far in as I dared, and save as much of
the casting line as I could; it was very little.
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