178 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



himself, and I am not sure but lie did say so, and, 

 whether he did or not, I have no doubt of the truth of 

 the saying. 



It has happened to me to fish the Dochart, from the 

 old inn at Luib down to the bridge, and the form of the 

 great Christopher was forever before me along the bank, 

 and in the rapids, making his last casts as Mrs. Gordon 

 here so tenderly describes him : 



" Had my father been able to endure the fatigue, we too 

 would have had something to boast of, but he was unable to do 

 more than loiter by the river-side, close in the neighborhood of 

 the inn — never without his rod. - * * 



" How now do his feet touch the heather ? Not, as of old, 

 with a bound, but with slow and unsteady step, supported on 

 the one hand by his stick, while the other carries his rod. The 

 breeze gently moves his locks, no longer glittering with the light 

 of life, but dimmed by its decay. Yet are his shoulders broad 

 and unbent. The lion-like presence is somewhat softened down, 

 but not gone. He surely will not venture into the deeps of the 

 water, for only one hand is free for a ' cast,' and those large 

 stones, now slippery with moss, are dangerous stumbling-blocks 

 in the way. Besides, he promised his daughters he would not 

 wade, but, on the contrary, walk quietly with them by the 

 river's edge, there gliding ' at its own sweet will.' Silvery band 

 of pebbled shore leading to loamy colored pools, dark as the 

 glow of a southern eye, how could he resist the temptation of 

 near approach ? In he goes, up to the ankles, then to the knees, 

 tottering every other step, but never falling. Trout after trout 

 he catches, small ones certainly, but plenty of them. Into his 

 pocket with them all this time, manceuvering in the most skilful 

 manner both stick and rod ; until weary, he is obliged to rest on 

 the bank, sitting with his feet in the water, laughing at his 



