THE ENGLISH LAKE COUNTRY 



most summer days to be sleeping like a mirror, with 

 the precipitous sides of the mountain intimately 

 reflected in its crystal waters. It is two thousand 

 three hundred and fifty-six feet above sea-level, and 

 nearly two thousand feet above Ullswater, while the 

 northern precipice of Helvellyn rises for almost 

 another eight hundred feet sheer out of its waters. 

 Nobody, save occasionally the present writer, ever 

 wets a line on Red tarn, though all the world is welcome 

 to. This might argue sheer perversity on my part. 

 It is really nothing of the kind, but, on the contrary, 

 a most reasonable and pleasant accessory to a day on 

 Helvellyn. Nor is that quite all, for the lake, I admit, 

 fascinates and mystifies me. Not one of the little 

 knot of expert local anglers down in Patterdale, to 

 whom all the other waters are as one open book, 

 ever fish it, though one or two of them can remember 

 having done so perhaps once in their lives. 



' What 's the matter with Red tarn, Tom ? ' 



' There 's nowt the matter wi' t'lake as I knows 

 on,' says that hero of doughty deeds innumerable by 

 night and day. 



' There 's trout in it.' 



' Oh aye, there 's trout in 't, to be sure, and some 

 fine yins, I expect.' 



' Did you ever fish it ? ' 



' Well, now, it may look strange-like, but I don't 

 know as I ever did.' 



This is as far as I ever got regarding Red tarn with 

 my local acquaintances. 



I should like to believe that superstition has a subtle 

 hand in this, and that the loss of poor young Gough 



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