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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Perhaps you have forgotten this is my side of the river, Meynell!" he shouted across it. "I am quite aware of it," said the Rector, as he shook hands with the embarrassed Mary. She was just moving away with a shy good-bye to the angry young goddess on the farther bank, when the goddess said: "Don't go, Mary! Here, Sir Philip take the fly-book!" She flung it toward him. "Goodnight."
Poetical fishers try to make people believe these fallacies; perhaps they impose on themselves; but if one would really enjoy landscape, one should leave, not only the fly-book and the landing-net, but the rod and reel at home.
We had left our rods at home; high-toned anglers who carry fancy tackle through such regions leave it along the painful way in small pieces. So we carried merely our baskets which were encumbrance enough and what we had in our pockets. You can cut a pole anywhere, and it does not want to be a long one either: take your fly-book if you like, but worms are as good or better.
'I am very sorry! she says in a voice that matched the evening, it was so quiet and soft; 'but it was exceedingly stupid of you to come behind like that. 'I didn't think you threw such a long line; I thought I was safe, I stammered. 'Hold this! she says, giving me a diminutive fly-book, out of which she has taken a scissors. I obey meekly. She snips the gut. 'Have you a sharp knife?
Without considering or understanding why, she began to experience an agreeable sense of restfulness and security in the silence which endured between them. He stood full in the sunlight, very deeply preoccupied with the contents of his fly-book; she leaned back on the sun-scorched railing of the bridge, bathing-suit tucked under one arm, listening to the melody of the rushing stream below.
For "Toussahissa," as I have rendered it, is not exact, but only as near as I can make it out from my pencil-memoranda, which, written in a note-book that did occasional duty as a fly-book, have been partially obliterated in that spot by the contact of a large and remarkably gaudy salmon-fly, whose repose between the leaves is disturbed, perhaps, by aquatic nightmares of salmon gaping at him from whirling eddies.
At least, I had within the moment been so engaged; although the truth is that the evening was so exceptionally fine, and the spot always so extraordinarily attractive to me this particular angle of the stream, where the tall birches stand, being to my mind the most beautiful bit on my whole estate that I had forgotten all about angling and was sitting with rod laid by upon the bank, the fly-book scarce noted in my hand.
To varnish a rod in December proves that one possesses either a dilatory or a childishly anticipatory mind. But before uncorking the varnish bottle, it occurred to me to examine a dog-eared, water-stained fly-book, to guard against the ravages of possible moths. This interlude proved fatal to the varnishing. A half hour went happily by in rearranging the flies.
Do you not find it so?" In the back of my fly-book I discovered a tiny phantom minnow a dainty affair of varnished silk, as light as a feather and quietly attached it to the leader in place of the tail-fly. Then the fun began.
He got his fly-book from the basket swinging at his left hip, opened it, turned the leaves with the caressing touch one gives to a cherished thing, and very carefully placed the fly upon the page where it belonged; gazed gloatingly down at the tiny, tufted hooks, with their frail-looking five inches of gut leader, and then returned the book fondly to the basket.
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