sport, when they are taking. It is a chilly business when there is nothing in the way of excitement to warm one, when the watermeadows look dreary in the grey light, and constant casting without result gets more and more monotonous as the hours go by.

February generally justifies its name of filldyke. Many of the meadows are flooded for a time, and even for the keenest of sportsmen of mature years there is not much fun in splashing through them under such conditions, with every chance of stumbling into a concealed deep channel where icy-cold water will pour down one's leg over the tops of long wadingboots. The floods subside towards the end of the month, enough to show up the riverbank, always the driest part of the average water-meadow. When that happens and a fine day comes, it is high time to put up the pike rod. There is a certain white-railed bridge about two miles above this old cathedral city (I do not think that is enough information to afford a clue to its whereabouts). About three-quarters of a mile above that bridge is a huge boiling hatch, very deep, with a heavy flow of water. Above that hatch the "happy valley" begins, a valley of little villages about a mile or so apart, and between them some

really good trout water. The river there is netted for pike and other coarse fish, for the sake of the trout. Below the hatch the pike have it all their own way as far as the city, in which for some curious reason the trout flourish again. There are always a few big ones to be seen under each of the three or four bridges, and generally a row of good townsfolk leaning over the parapet to look at them. They remind me of the fisherfolk in a certain village on the Cornish coast. The saying in those parts is that you can always tell the men of that village because the elbows of their coats are worn out by leaning on them over the low wall of the little breakwater. The wall of the breakwater by the next village is lower, and the men who dwell there can be distinguished by inspecting the seats of their trousers. But we will leave all thoughts of the townsfolk behind us, after buying a hot mutton-pie at a pastry-cook's and wrapping it up in a cloth to take with us, ready for eventualities. A small thermos flask full of hot soup is not a bad thing to have with one, as well, on a February day. It is a grey, cold day, with a cold wind blowing, and there is no sense in not being supplied with creaturecomforts, in case, there should be a blank day

in prospect and a long walk home with an empty bag-much more tiring to carry than a full one, after a long fishing-day.

I wish that I was better at this casting business with a light wagtail bait and a wind blowing. It is so difficult to get fly-fishing out of one's head and to realize that it is a different art altogether. I remember that I used to find it fairly easy from a boat, with a nice flat board to coil the spare line on before swinging out with the bait, but what with grass and mud and old rushes and pools of water along the banks, that way will not do, so, years ago, I provided myself with a very extravagant contraption in the way of a patent reel which runs free if you press a little trigger, less freely if you do not, and with a heavy check on the line if you touch another thing. I suppose that it would be all right if one fished for pike every day, and it would come naturally to touch the right thing instead of the wrong one, but, as it is, I sometimes in casting keep the free-wheel arrangement on after the wagtail has dropped in the water on the other side of the river (or wherever else it may have fallen after a bad cast). If you press the trigger for a fraction of a second too long, the drum goes on free-wheeling and overruns yards and

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yards of line. It takes ages and much patience to set matters right, and meanwhile the wagtail bait, bristling with triangle hooks, sinks to the bottom and catches in a snag or a weedroot before you can reel in. Probably the trouble is in the word casting," because what you really do if you can is to swing the bait smoothly out, with only just enough force to send it where you want to, slip your finger off the trigger the instant, or just before, it touches the water, and then reel in slowly at once to take up any slack line and let the current spin the bait. It would all be easier if I used a lead, I suppose, but the river is not very deep, and as a pike's eyes are on the top of his head, I have a notion that he sees things better if they are well above him in the water. But I do like good big, bright metal spinners to keep the bait spinning well and showing good flashes as it spins. I find the wagtail (which is just two flat strips of rubber) painted reddy-brown and gold outside better than the pattern painted painted blue-and-silver. Both are painted red inside the strips.

Well, here we are at the river, and it certainly is good to see running water again and to have a rod in one's hand at last, even if not a flyrod. I only wish that I had a telescopic gaff,

as a long-handled one will get between one's legs, somehow, wherever it is slung. All this sounds rather critical and not in holiday mood, which only means that we have not got into things properly yet, but we soon shall. In a few minutes we get an extraordinary bit of luck: a kingfisher flits by in a flash of blue. We put one or two snipe up as we go through the water-meadow and a wild duck as we get near the bank. Then, as we wander away from the road, comes complete solitude: not a sign of life anywhere; at least, none visible or to be heard. With the silence and solitude comes peace, and soon keenness, as the bait goes out and is wound in past a likely place for pike. Time after time it goes out, swings round with the stream as I wind in slowly, dwelling under the near bank, and leaving the bait spinning under water till close to my feet. Sometimes a pike will follow it all the way round and only take at the last moment, and here and there are patches of reeds along the bank and likely spots for pike to lie amongst them.

So it goes on for an hour or two: swing across, reel in, recover, swing across, reel in, recover, monotonously and with no success, until the face of the water looks blank and as