VII.

The Gold Devon.

"Thou gaudy gold,

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee."

Merchant of Venice.

THIS paper is a very humble contribution to the science of catching fish, and is not intended to amuse the careless reader who hunts for humour in all things printed, like the proverbial pig for the infrequent truffle: it is written with the deep conviction that he who makes two trout lie in the basket of a brother craftsman, where one would otherwise have reposed alone, is a benefactor to the human race.

Ignorance is the curse of God, knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven." Some superior people consider Devon minnows useless for killing trout, especially in still, deep pools,

where there is no current to disguise the taste of the tackle - shop; and others think them poaching, pure and simple, though they never can explain why, and shelter themselves behind an expressive shrug. Since a day that I once had on some Yorkshire ponds I have been unable to share either view, and I regard a certain form of this artificial bait as quite legitimate and particularly deadly. I am informed that the apparently charming little quill minnow is very destructive in the hands of some experienced anglers in streams where there is a good clattering ripple, but I have never killed a fish on one myself in England, though I have given the bait a fair trial. my mind, it cannot be "thrown as a fly," and its very lightness is not altogether in its favour, while its lack of the metallic gleam of its heavier brethren seems distinctly against it.

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The course of events which led me to pin my faith on the small golden variation of the Devon minnow was shortly as follows. was August, the month when the fish always seem to ask us, in their mute, unsympathetic manner, why it is necessary to take a holiday

and go a-fishing then instead of at a more rational time of year. They know all about the artificial whipping of water, but little of the stern habits of the natural or Parliamentary Whip. It was, then, a bright, burning August, when the grouse were dying by thousands on the neighbouring moors, and the trout pools lay all day beneath the sun like burnished mirrors, unrippled until at eventide the small fry began to leap and jeer at the perspiring angler, while their great progenitors lay solemnly below, meditating, no doubt, on the vanity of human wishes. I inspected four beautiful ponds on the evening of my arrival in Yorkshire, under the guidance of my host, who pointed out the special characteristics of each. The first was newly made, and a quantity of fry had but lately been turned into it: nothing had as yet been caught there, and as it was in a very exposed position, it was difficult for the fishermen to approach for a cast without attracting attention. The second was a similar one, but in a more overgrown and secluded spot, and contained, I was told, some large fish.

The third was much deeper,

and well stocked with all sizes, but could only be got at from one bank. Lastly, we came to the Beech Tree Pool, which was large and deep, embowered in a grove of the stately trees from which it derived its name. I have never seen a more beautiful spot: as the setting sun struck through the overhanging branches and "made a glory in the place," I almost expected to see a wood nymph gliding off into the bracken, or some sylvan deity challenging our intrusion. However, nothing of the kind happened; and as we had but a short hour at our disposal, we lost no time in putting our rods together and getting to work. There were quantities of beautiful water-plants growing in the middle of the pool, which appeared to be very deep, but round the edge there was a margin of clear surface, from fifteen to twenty feet wide. On the inward fringe of this belt the wary old fish lay waiting for us. The only available method of attracting them was to cast a small single fly as near as possible to the first water-lily visible on the surface, and it was by no means easy to do this satisfactorily without being seen or getting hung up in a

tree. However, we each hooked and netted a nice fish before we had to reel up and tramp back across the park to dinner.

On the way homeward I showed my friend a gold Devon, and asked him what he thought of it; to which he replied that it was useless, as the fish in these still pools were much too experienced for such obviously human lures, but I was welcome to try it to my heart's content. For my part, I thought it looked so pretty and inviting that I would take him at his word; and I did. So the next day, when I had a couple of hours to spare before sunset, I set off, accompanied by an ardent young friend with a net, towards the ponds. It was again very bright and hot, so I was not surprised to find that my flies attracted nothing in the nearest of the series. I got a rise in the second; but did not stop there long, as the water was too clear: besides, it was a small one, and, being short of time, I was anxious to reach number four. In the third, small fish were rising and leaping everywhere, but nothing, small or large, would look at a fly; so at length I decided to try the minnow.

It was