CLEAR WATERS 



in the year of Trafalgar, whose remains were found 

 by the lake-shore weeks afterwards, watched over by 

 his still living but emaciated little dog, had cast a 

 perennial shadow over the spot. Wordsworth's poem 

 on the tragedy may be remembered, and even the 

 poet, who hadn't a glimmering of the sportsman within 

 him, noted the rising trout. Hear him : 



There sometimes doth a leaping fish 

 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 

 The crags repeat the Raven's croak, 

 In Symphony austere j 

 Thither the rainbow comes the cloud 

 And mists that spread the flying shroud 

 And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast 

 That if it could would hurry past. 



Alack for that discordant terminal line, but such was 

 Wordsworth's ' way.' 



At any rate, I will allow the great poet to supply 

 one other reason why I like a day on Red tarn. Pro- 

 bably the secret of its neglect lies in the suspicion 

 that there are but few trout in it, which I think is a 

 fact, though rather a curious one. Fed by limpid 

 springs, and drained by the plashing beck that runs 

 down to Glenridding : with gently shelving, pebbly, or 

 rocky shores, and an abundance of both deep and 

 shallow water, it looks perfection. It is, moreover, 

 as easy and pleasant a lake to fish from the shore, when 

 there is a sufficient breeze, as could be found in all 

 Britain. The trout, what there are, run a steady 

 three to the pound, and, though sometimes dark, are 

 shapely of form and strong fighters. I say * what 

 there are,' because I believe the mystery, such as it is, 



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