2i8 HIGHLAND SPORT 



All stones and rocks and fearful steep; 

 A halt, and then begins a creep. 

 Half-bent double, crouching, crawling. 

 Through cold burns and peat bogs sprawling; 

 With panting breath, and aching back, 

 With pains that each tired limb doth rack ; 

 At last within one hundred yards 

 You find the hinds' keen eyes are guards 

 To keep you waiting where you lie 

 Till they feed o'er the line of sky. 

 At length they go ! you raise your head, 

 Sink your elbow in a mossy bed; 

 Inch by inch the rifle you protrude. 

 Till to the stock your cheek is glued. 

 Then crack ! rings out your number one. 

 And when you see no mischief's done. 

 Then crack ! again speaks number two. 

 And there you lie and look most blue; 

 To think, in spite of all that crawl. 

 You've gone and missed him after all. 



T. Surrey. 



loth. — It still rained as if the Deluge was about to com- 

 mence afresh. In the afternoon we sallied forth in macintoshes 

 to the Rhora, each armed with a double-handed trout rod and 

 a small Blue Phantom. Twenty-four hours' rain had swollen 

 the Rhora stream into a big, rolling river, rushing with resist- 

 less force to join the mighty Spey. Vague reports had reached 

 us of monster trout that ascended this tributary during the 

 autumn floods — stubborn monsters which dwelt spring and 

 summer through in the black depths of Loch Insch, but which 

 might yet be captured when pushing their way up flooded 

 rivers to their spawning grounds. 



It was settled that Patcham was to begin at once and fish 

 upwards, whilst I was to go some miles above to fish down 

 till we met, so after an hour's fast walking I commenced to try 

 my luck. The water was of the darkest porter colour, and the 

 gold sides of the phantom flashed pleasandy to the eye as it 

 neared the surface. To fish in the river proper was useless, 

 for it was just a raging torrent in which no fish could lie ; but 



