442 iktnss of tbe 1Rofc, IRifle, anfc 6un 



now, whenever I think of it. I will trouble any surveyor 

 to measure the distance from the Kingswell Lees, the 

 starting spot, above Melrose Bridge, to the end of the 

 Cauld Pool, the death place, by Melrose Church, and to 

 tell me how much less it is than a mile and three 

 quarters." 



A more tremendous fight than even the foregoing, 

 however, was the following, which the reader is at liberty 

 to swallow or not as he pleases : 



"In the month of July, some thirty years ago, one 

 Duncan Grant, a shoemaker by profession, who was 

 more addicted to fishing than to his craft, went up the 

 way from the village of Aberlour, in the north, to take 

 a cast in some of the pools above Elchies-water. He 

 had no great choice of tackle, as may be conceived ; 

 nothing, in fact, but what was useful, and scant supply 

 of that. 



Duncan tried one or two pools without success, till 

 he arrived at a very deep and rapid stream facetiously 

 termed the Mountebank : here he paused, as if meditating 

 whether he should throw his line or not. ' She is very 

 big,' said he to himself, 'but I'll try her ; if I grip him 

 he'll be worth the handing.' He then fished it, a step 

 and a throw, about half way down when a heavy splash 

 proclaimed that he had raised him, though he missed 

 the fly. Going back a few paces, he came over him 

 again, and hooked him. The first tug verified to Duncan 

 his prognostication, that if he was there ' he would be 

 worth the handing ' ; but his tackle had thirty plies of 

 hair next the fly, and he held fast, nothing daunted. 

 Give and take went on with dubious advantage, the 



