CLEAR WATERS 



stocked lake, in exclusive possession of this comfort- 

 able and delightfully situated hotel. 



But for myself I like the old-fashioned fishing-inn, 

 the simple parlours, the cosy bar, even the stuffy bed- 

 rooms. I like the old-timers that haunt, or used to 

 haunt it, and can suffer their expanded fish lies, or, to 

 be more polite, their terminological inexactitudes, with 

 joy and gladness for all the fish that they have really 

 caught, and all the waters that they have really fished. 

 They do not, I am afraid, exchange their fishing outfit 

 at night for a boiled shirt and dress jacket, but stick 

 their stockinged feet into felt slippers. Nor, I fear, 

 do they call for gingerade, nor hot water neat, nor 

 soda-and-milk as the hour of rest approaches, but for 

 whisky unabashed, and with a slice of lemon in it, 

 for auld lang syne, like the immortal Silas Wegg. And 

 sometimes the calls of ancient friendship demand a 

 second, which leads to another bit of coal upon the fire, 

 and then they wander over old ground from the Tamar 

 to the Tay. What they are when at home, some of 

 these ancients — sharp enough fellows when they have 

 got their business coats on again, no doubt — ^you might 

 crack with them, and fish with them for a month and 

 never guess, so thoroughly and so completely are they 

 soaked for the time in the passion of their hoHday 

 hours. Perhaps they are passing away, or have already 

 passed. The world, maybe, is getting too rackety 

 and too complex nowadays to breed such characters. 

 When anybody can get anywhere by motor in a few 

 hours without thought or without trouble, the senti- 

 ment, one might say the charm, of these old, wide 

 wanderings is more than half destroyed. The inner 

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