THE DRY-FLY SEASON 215 



down ; the rod gives to the strike, the reel protests, 

 and the hooked fish lashes the water as it vainly 

 strives to gain the sanctuary of the tangled weeds 

 below. The rod, nothing yielding, for to yield is 

 fatal, keeps command until the net embraces the 

 plucky captive. 



A trout already and the rise just beginning ! 

 The triumph is repeated, and again many times 

 repeated. An error in direction, a want of delicacy 

 now and then, a hold giving way, a strike too forceful, 

 but serve to make us more careful. 



At length darkness falls, and only we disturb the 

 eerie silence of the loch. Ashore we reluctant 

 and yet contented go, and there on the dewy grass 

 we arrange a dozen gleaming trophies whose rare 

 beauties we can guess but dimly see. Is that a 

 most remarkable hour, the best hour of a season ? 

 No, it is just Loch Dochart. 



Again, we may seek Loch Leven, where a June 

 evening is likely to prove more generous than a 

 full day. There is not time to go far, and we per- 

 force content ourselves with the Graveyard Bank 

 or the Thrapple Hole, unlovely names, no doubt, 

 but more romantic spots are beyond our reach. 

 The long, level rays of the setting sun throw long 

 shadows across the loch, soothing the breeze to a 

 gentle zephyr, calming the rolling waves to a 

 pleasant ripple. The sun drops behind the farthest 

 peak of the Ochils, and nerves begin to tingle with 

 anticipation. There is no visible reason for excite- 

 ment, and yet the feeling pervades that something 

 is about to happen. 



Meanwhile the rod has not been idle ; all the 

 way from the pier we have cast at a venture across 



