Are you built so that every stream of water, even the output of the melting snow in the springtime, seems to say “Fish!”? Whether fortunately or unfortunately, the writer has never been able to keep his imagination from capering about when in the presence of lake or river. The shining Dwyfor had an irresistible appeal, and our host was subjected to cross-examination. “Are there any fish in the Dwyfor?” “Yes.” “What kind?” “Trout.” “Would I be permitted to fish it?” “Yes, by taking out a license.” “Have you any tackle?” “Certainly, and you are more than welcome to use it.” The rod was heavier and stiffer than the American was accustomed to use, and the flies were absolute strangers; but, nothing daunted, the fisherman paid for his license and betook himself to the river. It is probable that Dr. W. would have little choice between going fishing and serving a term in jail; but the unselfish man trudged patiently along with his friend. If ever a stream was clearer or its banks more absolutely lacking in everything that would screen the fisherman, it is unknown to the writer. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind rippled the surface of the water, and we have a suspicion that every trout in the Dwyfor saw us when we started from Garn. At all events, they had hied them to safe retreats from which they looked contemptuously upon the fisherman and his futile efforts to fool them. One deluded fish, nearly as long as one’s finger, did lose his mental poise for a moment, just long enough to grab the fly. The verdict of temporary lunacy was promptly rendered by both Dr. W. and the fisherman, and the trout was returned to the water. Fishing in the Dwyfor was a flat failure, so far as returns in fish go. But the fish were not the only returns of the day. When it was evident even to the most optimistic that fishing was wasted effort, Dr. W. suggested that we were not far from a “cromlech,” and off we started. A mile or so along the road, and then across the fields, and we came to one of the many Druidical remains to be found in Great Britain. The circle was small, not more than ten feet in diameter, all the stones standing and having a large, flat stone covering the top. Who were the builders? Why was it built? No voice comes from the weather-beaten stones, and wise men give differing answers. The sun is almost touching the summit of the western hills when we reach Garn. We have tramped many miles, made a colossal failure of fishing, but there has been delightful comradeship, the blue sky, fair fields, hours in God’s open, and we are happy. [Illustration: 0241] [Illustration: 0242] ```_When all the world is young, lad, ````And all the trees are green; ```And every goose a swan, lad, ````And every lass a queen; ```Then, hey, for boot and horse, lad, ````And round the world away; ```Young blood must have its course, `````lad, ````And every dog his day._ ````--Charles Kingsley, `````_When All the World Is Young_. [Illustration: 0243]