LOCH LEFEN TROUr 



and you long to make them speak of prehistoric 

 ages, of the thousand years that intervened be- 

 tween the landing of the Celt and Julius Caesar, 

 when the Arch Druid was absolute in the land, 

 — even of the stone men who preceded the Celt, 

 and whose remains and implements are imbedded 

 in the caves and river strata of Britain. Your 

 eyes have lifted from the cast to the distant 

 mountains, as if they would indeed find voice 

 and satisfy the craving. " There 's a lovely one, 

 sor ! " growls the oarsman, disgusted with your 

 pre- occupation, risen while you were dreaming 

 of by-gone years. A flash of bluish silver 

 beneath the flies, like the sudden blaze of a 

 Brazilian diamond, and that is all. He has 

 recognized the sleave-silk and feathers, and has 

 glanced past, on the wind, in pursuit of the genu- 

 ine Culicids. Let him go. " You are not 

 greedy, sor," says our boatman. We have had 

 our share, more than our share, for many an 

 angler spends days at Loch Leven, awaiting favor- 

 able weather, without killing his single trout, 

 and our take already, as announced in the " Glas- 

 gow Herald" of June 30th, is ten fish, weight 

 eight pounds twelve ounces. 



As we plod our way at evening toward Harris's 

 Hotel in Kinross, the sights and scenes about 



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