A TWEEDS1DE SKETCH 141 



! 



the gloaming we'd be roaming homeward, telling, 

 perhaps, the story of the ghost seen by Sir Walter 

 Scott near Ashiesteil, or discussing the Roman 

 treasure still buried near Oakwood Tower, under 

 an inscribed stone which men saw fifty years ago. 

 Or was it a treasure of Michael Scott's, who lived 

 at Oakwood, says tradition ? Let Harden dig for 

 Harden's gear, it is not for me to give hints as to 

 its whereabouts. After all that ill-luck, to be brief, 

 one is not in the vein for legendary lore, nor 

 memories of boyhood, nor poetry, nor sunsets. I 

 do not believe that one ever thinks of the land- 

 scape or of anything else, while there is a chance 

 for a fish, and no abundance of local romance can 

 atone for an empty creel. Poetical fishers try to 

 make people believe these fallacies ; perhaps they 

 impose on themselves ; but if one would really 

 enjoy landscape, one should leave, not only the 

 fly-book and the landing-net, but the rod and reel 

 at home. And so farewell to the dearest and fairest 

 of all rivers that go on earth, fairer than Eurotas 

 or Sicilian Anapus with its sea-trout ; farewell for 

 who knows how lone ? to the red-frin^cd Gleddis- 



