The Fishing of Burns with the Wet Fly 1 5 



but quaint note, and hard by, (though the 

 bird himself be perchance out of sight) the 

 sweet song of the sedge warbler. 



I drink in these sounds, unconsciously 

 surrendering my young soul to their spell ; 

 and then (who has not experienced its weird 

 fascination amid the wild Scottish hills ?) 

 comes a strange sensation ! Nature has 

 apparently fallen asleep, and when that 

 happens, I strain my ears and listen listen 

 to the silence. 



Suddenly, "I spy strangers in the house." 

 The water-ouzel it is, who has broken the 

 spell. 



There he is, in his spotless shirt-front, 

 bobbing and bobbing again. Ah, Rascal ! 

 who knows so well as you where to pick 

 up the roe of a spawning fish ; your larder 

 at present holdeth not the " caviare " which 

 thy soul loveth. You need not keep on 

 booin', booin', like Sir Pertinax MacSyco- 

 phant. I have nothing for you, so be off! 

 I continue, kneeling, crawling, and stumb- 

 ling, the rod continually " waving" the 

 while. At last I draw near to the best pool 

 in the whole burn. 

 Let me describe it. 



A solitary cascade (or linn), where, into 

 the deep black basin beneath, the brown 



