I might throw over the very noses of the beasts, but
they seldom even glanced at the (artificial) fly. I tried them with
Greenwell's Glory, with a March brown, with "the woodcock wing and hare-
lug," but it was almost to no purpose. If one did raise a fish, he meant
not business--all but "a casual brute," which broke the already weakened
part of a small "glued-up" cane rod. I had to twist a piece of paper
round the broken end, wet it, and push it into the joint, where it hung
on somehow, but was not pleasant to cast with. From twelve to half-past
one the gorging went merrily forward, and I saw what the fish were rising
at. The whole surface of the loch, at least on the east side, was
absolutely peppered with large, hideous insects. They had big grey-white
wings, bodies black as night, and brilliant crimson legs, or feelers, or
whatever naturalists call them. The trout seemed as if they could not
have too much of these abominable wretches, and the flies were blown
across the loch, not singly, but in populous groups. I had never seen
anything like them in any hook-book, nor could I deceive the trout by the
primitive dodge of tying a red thread round the shank of a dark fly. So
I waded out, and fell to munching a frugal sandwich and watching Nature,
not without a cigarette.
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