ST. BOS WELLS. 233 



my first run with a salmon. Anglers not unfrequently 

 have to bear the taunts of then- non-piscatory friends that 

 " the big ones always get away." Where is the angler, 

 I would like to know, of any experience, who cannot 

 recall the loss of many and many a big one .-' Why, the 

 big ones, in these days of fine tackle and shy fish, have of 

 course the best chance to get away. That i\iQ.y frequently 

 do make their escape I frankly admit ; that they 

 ahvays get away, I strongly deny ; though in my case — 

 alas ! that I should have the tale to tell — I lost my fish. 

 But, not to anticipate, I had been wading down the 

 middle of the river, about a mile below the Mcrtoun 

 bridge, one Saturday afternoon, among the first days of 

 September, fishing fly, not over successfully, in conse- 

 quence of the sparkling and fiery brilliancy of the sun 

 overhead and the absolute cloudlessness of the sky, when 

 I sat down on a little gravelly island in mid-stream, to 

 rest and refresh myself; and also to change my cast, and 

 wait for the beginning of the twilight shades, and the turn 

 of fortune. I had been using a cast of very small flies, 

 and on looking over my book, I came upon some of a 

 considerably larger pattern — average-size trout flies they 

 were, such as one would use when the fresh was clearing 

 off, or when there was a good " curl " on the water, or, as 

 was now the case, in the evening. These, a relation of 

 mine — a keen angler — had got dressed from some special 

 feathers, by a crack tier of hooks in Aberdeen, and they 

 had found their way somehow into my book. I selected 

 one with a brownish-yellow wing, a sort of tawny moth- 

 looking fly, and attached this to my line as the tail hook : 



