The Fishing of Burns with the Wet Fly 1 7 



Presently I observe one small fly, then 

 a second, and a third, at no great distance 

 from the haunt of that cunning old rascal, 

 but a little further up the burn. 



Then I see a small "bell," followed by 

 a ring, and this is repeated. The odd 

 thing about it all, is, that no flies now 

 are visible. Can that be my friend's work ? 

 Eh? Off comes my dropper, and I have 

 replaced my tail-fly by a red spinner (No. 2, 

 Kendal scale) for luck. The wind has 

 fallen momentarily, and it is a dead calm. 

 Now for it now, or never. Wading, so as 

 to avoid sending a tell-tale wave before 

 me, and bending low to keep out of sight 

 as far as it is possible for a six-foot lad 

 to do, I deliver an underhand cast. Alas ! 

 it is caught by a twig, and I am hung up 

 but only a moment, for I give one sharp 

 pull and am free, minus the fly, a very easy 

 let off. 



Eeplacing it with another from the same 

 lot, and, wetting the gut well, I make 

 another effort. The fly falls just right, 

 but a breath of wind, bellying the line out, 

 drags it away just as the golden blaze of 

 the form I love, parts the black waters, and 

 tells me that I shall soon be on terms with 

 the king of the pool, my friend of the eddy. 



c 



