50 CHATS ON ANGLING. 



was getting the boat in readiness. Whilst I was doing so my reel 

 began to screech, and I found I had hooked a good trout, my cast of 

 flies having apparently been dancing over the wind-swept waves. It 

 was certainly a good augury of what was to come. After a good deal 

 of trouble we got our boat launched, and, though leaking a bit, it was 

 in a floatable state. The wind was too high to admit of a slow drift 

 across the little loch, but it did not much matter. 



At every cast there were rises, not at one of the flies, but often 

 at all three — no skill was required. The fish were rampant, and would 

 be hooked. In fact, the main part of the fun lay in seeing how often 

 one could land two fish hooked simultaneously. We only made three 

 drifts in all, for it is easy to be surfeited with such sport. After our 

 third drift was finished and the boat was hauled up again into its place 

 we had leisure to count the slain ; they were certainly very numerous. 

 I somewhat reluctantly transcribe the entry in my fishing diary lest 

 the tale may be set down as a " fisherman's story." They amounted in 

 all to ninety-two, and weighed between 40 and 50 lb. It certainly was 

 a record day for even that prolific loch. There is yet one more entry 

 in the same fishing log to the effect that the 15 odd pounds weight of 

 trout that I personally carried home that afternoon formed a considerable 

 addition to the labour of the walk over the hills and against the gale, 

 and that I frequently wished them at Jericho. 



But you might go to Loch Broom on a still day and you would 

 be almost inclined to declare that it was untenanted, so fickle in their 

 behaviour are these selfsame trout. 



There is a little loch — Loch Dhu — in Forfarshire, high up in the 

 hollow of the hills, tenanted by many little black trout, who refuse to 

 be beguiled by the artificial fly. I tried it once or twice whilst grouse 

 shooting at Rottal, but with the poorest results. One day, very early 

 in the morning, I was going up the hill with my rifle and glass in 

 the hope of getting a stalk at a red deer before our grouse drive 

 began. On my way up I passed within half to three-quarters of a 

 mile of Loch Dhu, and happened to notice a strange turmoil on its 

 usually unruffled surface. Bringing my glass to bear upon it, I dis- 

 covered the cause. A swarm of bees was crossing the loch, a few inches 

 above the surface, and apparently every one of the little black tenants 



