CLEAR WATERS 



owner who had been one of our little fishing company 

 in the old days. He had long ceased to be a fisher- 

 man, though the father of several. Nor were we at 

 the moment concerned at all with such things, but 

 were merely talking over old times and watching some 

 trout rising under an over-arching willow, and some- 

 thing like this passed between us. 



* All is of course changed now,' said I ; l and the 

 river, no doubt, preserved up to its source ? ' 



' Preserved ? no ; why should it be ? ' replied my 

 friend in a tone of surprise. 



* Do you mean to tell me, then, that with all the 

 modern development and demand for trout fishing, 

 things here are still as they were when we were young ? ' 

 [I might add that a big village of a thousand souls lay 

 in sight upon the ridge above, to say nothing of a 

 paper-mill on the river employing about a hundred 

 hands.] 



' Yes, of course they are ; what else do you ex- 

 pect ? So far as I know, the river is practically free 

 up to its source. Why not ? ' 



Well, like any one else from south of the Tweed, at 

 the beginning of the twentieth century I very natur- 

 ally never expected anything of the kind. This was 

 during a brief run of a couple of days across the Border. 

 The following summer I revisited south-eastern 

 Scotland seriously, and took the further opportunity 

 of paying a longish visit to the upper Whiteadder, 

 not wholly, since the month was August, on fishing 

 bent, but with the prospect of at least throwing an 

 occasional line on its once familiar streams. 



I had not assuredly forgotten my old friend's utter- 



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