CHAPTER XLIII 



A FEBRUARY DAY ON THE DEE 



THE frost of the past few days has "louped," as they 

 say, in the night, and the morning air is soft and mild. 

 Along the valley of the Dee there is much activity, for 

 the river is opening its waters after the close season of winter. 

 Yet it is difficult to realize that winter, or the greater part of 

 it at all events, has gone, for there has been an almost entire 

 absence of snow, and little frost. This morning, were it not 

 for that unmistakable odour of spring given off by the humid 

 earth, it would be easy to imagine the season as October — and 

 a mild October day at that. 



A narrow track, leading from the high road through a 

 plantation of pines, brings one to the river bank. The water 

 is low — too low for a successful opening — ^and clear; for the 

 month of January in Aberdeenshire this season was a dry 

 one, and there is little or no snow on the hills to keep up 

 the river. The line is wetted, and, with that added interest 

 of the unknown which must always mark the first day of 

 each season, the first pool is fished carefully down, the fly a 

 sober-coloured "Glentana." At the head of the pool a couple 

 of red-breasted mergansers are energetically fishing, and 

 three or four mallard rise from the water's edge, quacking 

 huskily. No oyster catchers as yet people the long pebbly 

 shingles — it is not until the opening days of March that 

 they arrive at their nesting grounds — and no sandpiper 

 flies twittering just above the river's surface. But water 

 ouzels fly and dive, and a sparrow hawk passes by at its 

 hunting. 



The first pool is fished down — not a fin showing. The 



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