A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



seldom spent a more wretched and hopeless morning. There 

 was no sign of a sea trout, and to be wading amongst sea 

 weed, throwing small flies in common salt water with a split 

 cane rod, seemed perfectly foolish and mad. The burns were 

 only large enough for minnows, and I could see that there was 

 nothing in them. Discomfort was added to hopelessness, for 

 my mackintosh had been forgotten, and some miles of rough 

 peat hags and bogs were between me and the house : the 

 morning had been fine, but about ten o'clock a series of cold, 

 pitiless storms began, which lashed the voe with wind and 

 heavy rain. This would not have been intolerable, if it had 

 not been for the long waders, without which the deep water 

 of the voe could not be reached ; but to stand in heavy rain 

 with waders nearly up to the arm-pits, and without an over- 

 coat, is to turn oneself into a receptacle for collecting fresh 

 water. Desolate hills rose immediately behind, and as each 

 storm came frowning up over the top of them, I retired from 

 the water and crouched behind an old boat on the shore till 

 the fury was past. After some hours of flogging the sea, hook- 

 ing only sea weed, and dodging the storms, there was no 

 spirit left in me. Blank despair overwhelmed me, and I 

 turned to go. My back was to the water, but I had got only 

 a few paces from it when I heard a splash, and looking round, 

 saw where a fish had jumped, the first sign of one seen that 

 day. I went straight to the place and caught a sea trout 

 almost at once, and in the few remaining hours of the day 

 landed sixteen pounds' weight of fish with fly. It may not 

 seem a very heavy basket, but it was something to carry over 



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