84 ECHOES OF SPORT 



further west. Flopping fat trout, gold and 

 black, that take the fly with a run, and scare 

 you half to death for fear the tackle won't 

 hold. I am not ashamed to own there have 

 been tears of rage and disappointment in my 

 eyes before now when a monster has broken 

 me. 



One pouring wet morning a summer or two 

 ago I ran out to the river, close behind the 

 house, for a short time. The water had been 

 very low, the only chance was to wade out to 

 some stones from where one could fish a 

 certain bit of rough tumbling water. Out I 

 went, and in less than half an hour I had 

 landed four trout weighing nearly three 

 pounds. When I showed them to the head 

 keeper, than whom a keener fisher does not 

 exist, I fancy he thought I had stolen a march 

 on him to have had all the fun to myself and 

 not even let him net them for me. 



From Scottish rivers and lochs my kaleido- 

 scope turns to English streams and ponds. 

 The clear translucent stream when the Mayfly 

 is out, and you must crawl on hands and 



