Worm and Fly
For a long time I kept my eye on the two men who were perched on a rock and screened by trees on the other side of the lake, a place among the best in Wales for its trout. There was something guilty about the bearing of those two. I went on fishing, casting a fly with the help of a wind that made my efforts look pretty but also, because of its cold breath, kept the fish down and made my long casts useless. My friend fished the lake round, and joined me where we had started. The men up among the rocks were poachers, he said. They were fishing with worm, and they had a message for me. The trout here were feeding on minnows. They would not rise to the fly until next April. I was wasting my time. They knew the bailiff, and would give me a whistle if he showed up. Meantime, if I wanted fish, I should put on a worm and sit down for a while. I had a permit which made it very plain that the fly was to be my lure, but I failed to rise a fish. Across the water the worm-fishers sat patiently waiting for a tug at their line. I did not see them catch anything, and somehow felt better on that account.
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