OCTOBER 189 



The scene was on the North Tyne in the lowest cast 

 of that fine stretch of salmon water known as Hargroves. 

 It was still, bright weather in early October ; the 

 hanging wood which clothes the cliff along the right 

 bank was already shot with russet and scarlet and gold, 

 and the river swept round that majestic curve dark, 

 but clear as a Cairngorm crystal, in just the right trim 

 for my purpose. I had fished the best of the water 

 before two o'clock, and sat myself down in a sandy, 

 sunny nook to discuss a sandwich, somewhat disap- 

 pointed because the morning's work had been rewarded 

 by only two pulls. True, there were the two fish that 

 pulled safely in the bag, a grilse of 5 Ib. from the flurry 

 beside the Roaring Meg (a huge boulder in mid-stream) 

 and a salmon of 13 Ib. from the narrows; but I had 

 expected more, for this was water whence, two seasons 

 before, I had landed forty-six salmon weighing 561 Ib. 

 in four days and a half. 1 



Having loitered over luncheon I went down to what 

 was called the New Place, a fine holding stream which 

 had lately been cleared of wood and rendered fishable, 

 but which I do not remember to have fished before 

 that day. I had not made many casts before I was 

 into something heavy, which worked steadily across to 

 the far side of the stream. I happened to have a 

 lighted cigar in my right hand ; whether it touched 

 and burnt the reel line, or whether the line had been 

 bruised, I know not ; but after the fish had taken out 

 30 or 35 yards thereof, it snapped close to the reel, and 



1 I had to catch the 1 P.M. train at Reedsmouth station on the fifth 

 day, and landed a fish with the last cast. 



