140 ANGLING SKETCHES 



There is a fire of autumn colour in the tufted 



woods that embosom Fernilea. ' Bother the 



setting sun,' we say, and the Maid of Neidpath, 



and the ' Flowers of the Forest,' and the memories 



of Scott at Ashiesteil, and of Muckle Mou'd Meg, 



at Elibank. These are filmy, shadowy pleasures 



of the fancy, these cannot minister to the mind 



of him \vho has been ' broken ' twice, who cannot 



j-esume the contest for want of ammunition, and 



who has not even brought the creature-comfort of 



a flask. Since that woful day I have lain on the 



bank and watched excellent anglers skilfully 



flogging the best of water, and that water full of 



fish, without hooking one. Salmon-fishing, then, 



is a matter of chance, or of plodding patience. 



They will rise on one day at almost any fly (but 



the sniggler), however ill-presented to them. On 



a dozen other days no fly and no skill will avail to 



tempt them. The salmon is a brainless brute and 



the grapes are sour ! 



If only the gut had held, this sketch would 

 have ended with sentiment, and a sunset, and 

 the music of Ettrick, the melody of Tweed. In 



