A DAY ON TWEED 261 



No sooner do we return to the fray than we are 

 met with a terrific shower of rain, which drives us 

 to the shelter of a leafy tree. With it comes the 

 wind, a hurricane ; the rain ceases, but the blast 

 continues. For long we fight against it, striving 

 to fish ; it plays tricks with the cast, tossing it 

 high in the air, slapping it on the water ; it bellies 

 out the line, making the flies come down at speed, 

 furrowing the water. No self-respecting trout would 

 touch them ; one glance is sufficient to make them 

 flee in alarm. We also are driven away to look for 

 a " bieldy bit," as they say on Tweedside, and find 

 none. Why were we not on the water an hour 

 sooner ? We are filled with vain regrets ; our 

 promising day is finished. 



The gale soon absorbs the moisture from the 

 gravel, and we lie down at the edge of a narrow 

 pool, slightly less exposed than the rest, partly in 

 hope that conditions will improve and partly to 

 watch for a rising fish. If either event occurs we 

 are ready to seize the rod and begin to live again. 



Our eyes wander from the pool to the stones at 

 our feet. Here is a nymph, a dark brown, squat, 

 venomous-looking creature, mounting a semi-sub- 

 merged stone ; it lies motionless for a time, and 

 then something begins to take place. A head 

 emerges ; the brown mass heaves a little and a 

 yellow banded body is slowly dragged forth ; one 

 after the other the crinkled wings are spread, and 

 before us stands uncertain in the wind an Olive Dun, 

 complete to its short antennae and long flowing setae. 

 A handsome big fellow he is, as he stands clinging 

 to the stone, quivering to the gale, drying his wings 

 preparatory to a flight on this inauspicious day. 



