fishing lies. Knowledge of the water, of course, goes a long way, but the gillie supplies that: he knows what the bottom of the river is like; you can only see the surface, which may help you with trout, but very little with salmon. I suppose that there is something in the selection of the fly; but there, again, the gillie comes in. I sometimes wonder whether he pays enough attention to the direction from which the light strikes the pool. I was tremendously impressed by a lecture I once heard delivered at the Camera Club, where underwater photographs of a salmon-fly swinging round in the current were displayed, showing the difference in its appearance when the source of light was before or behind it. In one case the fly "flashed" and sparkled, in the other case it showed dark, as a silhouette, whatever its colour might be. Then, of course, we must give points for skill in casting and in working (or not working) the fly, to give it the right appearance. I suppose that a long, straight line is the great thing in early spring fishing in heavy water, so that the pull of the line on the fly shall be applied as soon as possible after it is in the water. Thereby, by the help of the stream, more water is covered effectively. This, as I find from an old diary, is how,

in 1914, I summed matters up statistically for one whose chances of salmon-fishing are occasional:

Far above all else in salmon-fishing, as in war, comes persistent endurance in the face of discouragement. Persistent endurance is far easier to achieve in salmon-fishing than it is in war, because you are spared the long periods of deadly monotony. Every pool differs from every other, and itself varies from day to day with the weather and the head of water. get a constant change of scene as you move from one pool to another, and fresh delight in the glories of familiar but always new surroundings. And if you mean to succeed, there is that one little bit of advice that transcends

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all others in importance: Keep your fly in the water." For those on economy bent, either because of emptiness of pocket or of reluctance to deplete a full one, there remains the old precept: Never economize in gut. Be sure to use the very best. The feeling that

one has worked one's hardest, and done all that was possible, consoles at the end of the blankest of blank days. In the knowledge that a fish has been lost, after much toil and strenuous endeavour, through cheap gut having broken, there is no consolation whatever.

SUCH

IV

APRIL IN NORTH DEVON

a

gorgeous morning. Big fleecy clouds drifting across a bright-blue sky before a chilly north-west wind that troubles me not at all where I lie on a sheltered bank in the hot sun. The Torridge runs at my feet, slightly coloured by last night's rain, and on the opposite bank the breeze stirs and sways a belt of wild daffodils. Beyond them a meadow, and then woods mounting up a steep hill-side, red and purple with elm-tree flowers and the tresses of birches. Here and there a patch of young larch, with just a shimmering of green appearing.

The bird-life in these parts is wonderful. There is a tiny patch of grass outside the window of the little study where I sat writing after breakfast, and on the grass we spread the breakfast-table scraps. First came a couple of sparrows. Then samples of three sorts of tits. Then a cock chaffinch, glorious in his spring plumage, and then, greatest joy of all,

two nut-hatches, very busy, but having just a moment to spare to perform a few gymnastics on a wee bush in the corner of the little grass-plot. After a glimpse at the spoil, one of them seized the biggest morsel, the other the next in size, and away with them in a hurry to their food-hoarding hole, of which we know the whereabouts in a friend's garden. Then a greenfinch-and all this within the space of ten minutes. I will pass over the birds seen in the primrose-banked lane leading to the river. From the lane runs a footpath through a wood, a little brook babbling by the footpath to run a wee mill just before joining the Torridge. On reaching the river the footpath turns up the river-bank, and between that spot and where I am lying I saw three kingfishers, the first two showing only the coppercoloured underside, as they had turned upwards when I saw them, but the third I had a full view of from above, as the sun shone full on his flashing blue back. There are three green woodpeckers calling afar off, and one is tapping in the wood opposite; but none of these have I seen this morning.

The most uncommon sight I have kept to the last. On the sky-line the softness of colouring of the trees in the wood is merged