164 DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 



To say " flies " to anglers is like saying " rats " to 

 terriers. Their fly-book is more to them than 

 Shakespeare, Milton, Dickens, or Kipling, and I 

 fear it is oftener in their hands even on the seventh 

 day than the Book of books. A replenished 

 receptacle for flies moves them more than a collec- 

 tion of the successful efforts of our greatest painters 

 and, although they may be familiar with the history 

 of every masterpiece, they can put their finger on 

 a fly that gives their thoughts far more vigorous 

 movement than any ancient or modern painting has 

 ever done. 



Old friends that have done good service we 

 sometimes take from out their stalls, smooth their 

 feathers, admire their every feature, and then 

 replace them with gentle care as we recall the 

 times and places of their triumphs. That old 

 Butcher, whose once gaudy garb is somewhat torn 

 and faded, tells me of a great victory of his when, 

 after being unpardonably overlooked until most 

 other flies had been given a trial, he beguiled a 

 twenty-seven-pound salmon by the taking way he 

 swam while crossing in front of the wouldn't-be- 

 tempted fish. 



In the corner of the last leaf of my book there is 

 a feathery fly of many shades of brown that is 

 nameless but highly prized because it is a relic of 

 my faithful gillie, M'Leish. What a length of years 

 following each other without a break we fished to- 

 gether for periods of from four to ten weeks, how 

 we got on and the sport we had, has been told 

 in another book. 



At times it happened with us, even in early 

 Spring, that the river fell so low that the fish 



