CHAPTER III. 



j]HROW it cannie, throw it cannie," 

 were words that unexpectedly 

 reached me from my attendant 



C m n, spoken in a strong Scotch dialect, 



after he had watched for a minute or two my first 

 essay at salmon-fishing in the river Ness. 



Now being impressed with the notion, that I 

 was throwing by no means a short line, as light 

 as a link of gossamer, and straight as a shaft from 

 a bow, his warning seemed to me to be a bit 

 hypercritical. Still, thought I, there must be 

 some good reason for his words, or he would 

 scarcely adventure them in the face of the 

 admitted fact that, few like, at the time at least, 

 to be confronted with any fault, be it of fishing, 

 or anything else. 



