122 THE SALMON. 



I will transcribe for the benefit of my readers an 

 abridged account of the killing of a fish thus 

 hooked, with which my friend Mr Tyler favoured 



me while fishing on the water, and which 



shows the occasional advantage, before referred to, 

 of having two flies up. Mr Tyler, I should say, 

 although a worthy, is essentially a prosy individual; 

 he tells stories of intolerable length, in which the 

 point bears the same proportion to the verbiage as 

 Mercutio's two grains of wheat did to the bushel of 

 chaff. Omitting incessant "I says" and "says he," 

 and much other surplusage, the narrative ran as 

 follows (I had been detailing the account, as re- 

 corded in "Land and Water," of Miss Lloyd's twelve 

 hours' struggle with a salmon): "I'll no say but 

 that if a beast be foul heukit he may gi'e an awfu' 

 deal of trouble an' tak' a deal of killin' ; but twa 

 hours ! hoo ! hoo ! ! it 's joost nonsense ! Did I 

 ever tell ye of a ploy I had on this varra pool wi' 

 one of those foul-heukit gentlemen ? (Let oot a 

 wee bittie mair line.) Weel, it was last spring ; I 

 wor oot at five o'clock, an* Duncan Gilroy the 

 precentor (that's line eneuch oot) had joost askit 

 to hae a throw for a fash (canny noo ! yon's a 

 grand \^\\: for a saumon) an' I allowed him. Weel, 

 he fashed the stream abune, an' he fashed the 

 pool doon to this varra stane we're noo on, an' 



