At the foot of the meadow, where the
stream ran in a curve between it and the woods, stood a man.
He held a fishing-rod in his hand, and was stepping back to make a
cast; but, at a cry from me, paused and turned slowly about.
"Uncle Gervase!"
"My _dear_ Prosper!" He dropped his rod and advanced, holding out
his hands to me. "Why lad, lad, you have grown to a man in these
months!"
"And it really is you, uncle!" I cried again, as yet scarcely
believing it, though I clasped him by both hands. "And what are
_you_ doing here?"
"Why," said he, quizzically, "'tis a monstrous confession for this
time of the year, but I was fishing for trout; and, what is more, I
have taken two, with Walton's number two June-fly, lad--Mr. Grylls's
variety--the wings, if you remember, made of the black drake's
feathers, with a touch of grey horsehair on the shank. I wished to
know, first, if a Corsican trout would answer to a Cornish fly, and,
next, if they keep the same seasons as in England. They do,
Prosper--there or thereabouts. To tell you the truth--though, as
they say an angler may catch a fish, but it takes a fisherman to tell
the truth about him--I found them woundily out of condition, and
restored them, as Mr.
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