A TWEEDSIDE SKETCH 133 



lured me to my ruin. I saw that the casting-line 

 had a link which seemed rather twisted. I tried 

 it ; but, in the spirit of Don Quixote with his 

 helmet, I did not try it hard. I waded into the 

 easiest-looking part of the pool, just above a 

 huge tree that dropped its boughs to the water, 

 and began casting, merely from a sense of duty. 

 I had not cast a dozen times before there was a 

 heavy, slow plunge in the stream, and a glimpse 

 of purple and azure. 



'That's him,' cried a man who was trouting 

 on the opposite bank. Doubtless it was ' him,' 

 but he had not touched the hook. I believe the 

 correct thing would have been to wait for half an 

 hour, and then try the fish with a smaller fly. 

 But I had no smaller fly, no other fly at all. I 

 stepped back a few paces, and fished down again. 

 In Major Traherne's work I have read that the 

 heart leaps, or stands still, or otherwise betrays 

 an uncomfortable interest, when one casts for the 

 second time over a salmon which has risen. I 

 cannot honestly say that I suffered from this 

 tumultuous emotion. ' He will not come again,' 



