114 BIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS 



hills are intersected, we pull trouts of half a yard in 

 length as fast as we did the perches from the ponds 

 at Pennycuik, and we are in the very centre of muir- 

 fowl. My uncle drinks the whey, and so do I- — -ever 

 since I understood it was brought to his bedside every 

 morning- at six, by a very pretty dairymaid. So much 

 simplicity resides amidst these hills that a pen (which 

 could write at least) was not to be found about the 

 house, though belonging to a considerable farmer, till 

 I shot the crow with whose quill I write this epistle." 



A more degenerate century finds the trout, as a rule, 

 of less noble dimensions — about six to the yard would 

 nowadays be an average measure. Nevertheless, disclaim- 

 ing poetic license, I may here record a basket taken one 

 May afternoon from these same waters. We had gone 

 first to the Glen; but finding that lovely stream in top- 

 flood, from rains beyond the hills — (the sources of the 

 Glen, I must stop to explain, arise on the further side 

 of Cheviot) — we returned by noon to our own water, 

 which had not been so much affected by the rain. During 

 that afternoon, I extracted forty-three trout, weighing just 

 under 14! lbs. Half were caught, in a biggish water, 

 on fly: the rest with worm, when (at 4 p.m.) the water 

 began to fine down. The creel was already full, and so 

 were the pockets of my keeper, Ternent, ere we started 

 on our homeward tramp in the dark. 



A curious incident befell me on this burn. While 

 fly-fishing, a dipper, flying out from under a hollow brae, 

 touched the cast with his wing and was firmly hooked. 

 He dropped on the water and instantly dived. Hence 

 I had to play a bird under water, the same as a trout. 

 The dipper fought hard ; yet seemed none the worse when 

 released. 



