214 DRY-FLY FISHING 



cast, we lay the questing pair across and up the 

 stream, working our way gradually to the neck. 

 The journey upwards is slow and occasionally inter- 

 rupted ; the creel opens now and then to receive 

 a victim, and we retire to the trees again to rest 

 ourselves, and likewise the stream. 



But in June we think mostly of the twilight 

 hour, that mysterious hour between sunfall and 

 the night when all is peace and a hush descends 

 over the land. 



If you would see us supremely happy, set us 

 afloat then on bonnie Loch Dochart when the 

 great peak of lofty Ben More is tipped with the 

 final ray of the setting sun, when the wind has 

 gone to rest and the reeds stand straight and motion- 

 less, when the water lies calm and dark beneath 

 the hazel-clad rocks of the northern shore, when 

 the castle stands out clear and sharp against the 

 western light. Grant us a boatman keen and 

 skilled, able to steer a silent craft with one deft 

 touch of ready oar, let us revel among the weeds 

 and let the trout commence the evening banquet. 



We face the blue heights beyond Strathfillan, 

 watching, waiting for the signal. There by the edge 

 of yonder reeds the water is faintly dimpled, and 

 the circles spread and spread unto the shore ; now 

 there is another and yet another, and the wavelets 

 meet and rock together. Forward silently moves 

 the boat ; as silently it stops. 



High above the concentric rings the fly is cast ; 

 daintily it lowers itself on spreading wings until 

 it gently touches the water ; there it rocks on the 

 tiny vortex, a living thing ; beneath it the trout 

 rises slowly and delicately, confidently takes it 



