Lea, trout which would take a worm when the rod was left to fish for itself!  In those old days Hackney might be called a fishing village.  There was in Walton’s later years a writer on fishing named W. Gilbert, “Gent.”  This gent produced a small work called the “Angler’s Delight,” and if the angler was delighted, he must have been very easily pleased.  The book now sells for large sums, apparently because it is scarce, for it is eminently worthless.  The gentle writer, instead of giving directions about fly-dressing, calmly tells his readers to go and buy his flies at a little shop “near Powle’s.”  To the “Angler’s Delight” this same W. Gilbert added a tract on “The Hackney River, and the best stands there.”  Now there are no stands there, except cabstands, which of course are uninteresting to the angler.  Two hundred years have put his fishing far away from him.

However, the ancient longing lives in him, and the Sunday morning trains from Paddington are full of early fishing-men.  But it cannot be that most of them are after trout, the Thames trout being so artful that it needs a week’s work and private information to come to terms with him.  Hitherto he has been spun for chiefly, or coaxed with live bait; but now people think that a good big loch fly may win his affections.  It is to be hoped that this view is correct, for the attempts by spinning and with live bait are calculated to stretch and crack even the proverbial patience of anglers.  Persons conscious of less enduring mettle in their mind will soon be off to the moorland waters of Devonshire, or the Border, where trout are small, fairly plentiful, and come early into season.  About the upper waters of Severn, where Sabrina is still unvexed by pollution, and where the stream is not greater than Tweed at Peebles, sport is fair in spring.

Though the Devonshire, and Border, and probably the Welsh waters, are just in their prime, the season is not yet for the Itchen and the Kennet, with their vast over-educated and over-fed monsters of the deep.  Though there may be respectable angling for accomplished artists thereabouts in late April and May, the true sport does not begin till the May-fly comes in, which he generally does in June.  Then the Kennet is a lovely and seductive spectacle to the angler.  Between the turns of sun and shower the most beautiful delicate insects, frail as gossamer and fair as a fairy, are born, and flit for their hour, and float down the water, soon to be swallowed by the big four-pound trout.  He who has no experience of this angling, and who comes to it from practice in the North, at first thinks he cannot go wrong.  There is the smooth clear water, broken every moment by a trout’s nose, just gently pushed up, but indicating, by the size of the ripple, that a monster is feeding below.  You think, if you are accustomed to less experienced fish, that all is well.  You throw your flies, two or three, a yard above the ripple, and wait to