the river Dore." "Where?" said I. "I see no river!" But there it was under my nose-discoloured by cattle above cooling their feet in the drop of water to be found in it. Notwithstanding this despicable beginning of things, my young lady informant told me there were plenty of trout lower down, especially in the May Fly time. She herself, and her sister, and her father, and her brother were all enthusiastic anglers, and did wonders sometimes. "But, mind you, it is a very difficult little river to fish," said she; and I believe her. Presumably it is from the legend of the "golden ring" that the valley takes its pretty name. But I have a distinct recollection of asking my father, as we were riding up the hill, why it was called "The Golden Valley." We stopped on the ridge. "Look down there, my boy," said he, "at the rich crops of wheat and barley and oats, and the grand meadows; it is because of the rich quality of the land producing these fine crops that this beautiful valley is called 'The Golden."" That is another interpretation of its title; it quite satisfied me then, and the glimpse I have now had of it fully justifies the title. But as I have said, the part I have seen to-day

has no claim to bring me back for fishing purposes.

Up to this point, therefore, I have no fishing exploits to chronicle. I have heard of other places where trout are said to abound, but they are far away. If I can reach them I may have

other adventures to record.

FISHING IN A WYE PRESERVE-FINGERLING FISHINGAT THE THREE COCKS-START FOR A LOVELY TROUT AND GRAYLING RIVER; BRIGHT HOPESUNLOOKED-FOR DISAPPOINTMENT

"Still fisheth he that catcheth one."

Jacula Prudentum.

July, 1902.

URING my short vacation I may truly be said to have had some splendid hunting-for fishing-and it has not been for want of activity on my part that my hunting has, in one sense, been a failure, though it has afforded me pleasant occupation. It so happens that my headquarters are situated many miles away from the abode of trout or grayling.

I told you in my last of my twenty-mile journey to Dorstone in search of the prill' called the Dore. Since then permission was given me to fish in a strictly preserved part of the Wye said to contain good trout quarters. Jack and I accordingly took a six-mile drive there one Friday. We arrived in a downpour of rain, and it continued while I hopelessly flogged the likely quarters; but I saw no sign of fish of any kind except three splendid salmon turning somersaults. They seemed to me to be about a yard long each, but of course the glimpse was momentary. My permission to fish specially excluded salmon-fishing; but, dear me, what a model place it was to practise casting a salmon fly-a long and broad deep pool, sweeping round an open gravel beach, no obstruction whatever. It looked so easy to cast over and hook one of those big fellows and simply haul him out on to the gravelly bed, but it was not for me to do.

The scenery round and about the bright river was enchanting, and in spite of the fact that I caught nothing-for there was nothing to catch -and I got a good wetting, I could find no

1 Prill is a local term for a very small stream. —A. A.

fault with my little excursion; indeed, I enjoyed it immensely. Fleet Street and its grim realities never once obtruded upon and marred the fair scenes about me.

One day I was waiting for ten minutes at a station close to the river; down there was a tall, white-bearded old gentleman in long black waders fly-fishing for what? I had been told that trout were there and were caught in any quantities. I saw this old fellow catch a fish five inches long, and I expected to see him put it back-not a bit of it; it went into his bag, and then another and another, and so the game was going on till my train left. What was he pocketing? Why, young salmon-fingerlings, samlets, or whatever they may be called. I had myself caught many of these little chaps, which I regarded as a nuisance and threw them back. I am told these samlets make a delicious fry; but is it legal to bag them?

On another occasion we painfully lifted our good old invalid into his pony-trap, and I took him for a long drive through the pleasant roads and lanes of the neighbourhood; it afforded us an opportunity of almost realizing one of his own tragic stories. I was driving leisurely up