124 DAYS AND NIGHTS OF SALMON FISHING. 



course has been run; and though disastrous clouds came 

 across him in his career, he went down in unfading 

 glory. 



These golden hours, alas! have long passed; but often 

 have I visions of the sylvan valley, and its glittering 

 waters, with dreams of social intercourse. Abbotsford, 

 Mertoun, Chiefswood, Huntley Burn, Allerley, — when 

 shall I forget ye ! 



But, to our humble business. The swell of the river 

 had been trifling, and it would be fit to fish on the 

 morrow. The later in the day, said Walter the Bold, 

 the better; so I fidgetted away the early part of the 

 morning, and hauled over my London tackle, which 

 proved unseemly to the sight of the Scotchman. The 

 flies, he said, were dressed like dancing dogs; but my 

 rod, he owned, was fine. 



At last we started. We had about two or three miles 

 to go to the upper cast called the "Carry- wheel." As I 

 neared it, and saw the sweep of the gallant river, I 

 stepped out in eagerness till I came to the top of a steep 

 covered with wood, gorse, and broom; then I dashed 

 down the rocks, and found myself on the channel, with 

 the rush of a glorious salmon cast before me. Think 

 of this, ye gudgeon fishers ! The rod was put together 

 in haste, — out came the London book; and whilst I 

 selected that misnomer a metropolitan salmon fly, a 

 huge fish sprang out of the water before me, bright and 

 lusty. What a challenge! In my agitation the flies got 

 entangled ; — confusion worse confounded beset me. 

 The hooks stuck into my quivering fingers, and then 

 a puff of wind scattered them abroad in various 



