THE AUTUMN SALMON 223 



the bank with the last glimmer of daylight, a fifteen- 

 pounder landed in ten minutes. 



That " the play's the thing " seems to be the general 

 opinion with regard to salmon-fishing, and that, no 

 doubt, is why the lofty soul despises the autumn fish. 

 It is true that in October as a rule a salmon shows not 

 the wildness it would have shown in March. There 

 are exceptions, but I am not concerned to cite them, 

 because the wildness of a fish has never impressed me 

 so much as its strength. It is awe-inspiring to have to 

 do with something which you cannot turn a hair's 

 breadth out of its course even with the big rod and 

 strong tackle. A salmon hanging thoughtfully motion- 

 less out in a stream which would bear the strongest 

 swimmer away, with a side-strain on him which would 

 move a heavy boat, is an opponent worthy of one's 

 muscle. But the sensation which one gets out of the 

 fish's play is not the only one in the sport. There is 

 what is called the " rug," an onomatopoeic word which 

 suggests not ill the low-toned vibration that passes up 

 the line and rod to the hand, and causes the whole 

 being of the angler to respond with exquisite emotion, 

 half excitement, half fear. There is the first sight of 

 the fish, only gained after several minutes of hard work, 

 and the estimate of his weight. And, finally, there is 

 the pure bliss of victory. If there be a more poignant 

 triumph among human affairs than the serene session 

 in company with the first fish of the season under the 

 lea of the gorse-bush, I do not know it. Truly, at that 

 moment life has no more to offer, except it be another 

 salmon. On the companion picture, which represents 

 a straightened rod, a slackened line, a boil in the water 



