LOCH-FISHING 113 



deprived of occupation ; of occupation, at least, from 

 which he gains the smallest profit. The sun glows 

 pitilessly in a brazen sky, and day by day the stream 

 dwindles and shrinks until it flows, a mere thread, 

 trickling languidly through a parched and thirsty waste 

 of sand and shingle. Its dry and empty channel runs 

 like an unsightly scar across the face of nature. The 

 hapless angler loiters listlessly on its arid banks, and 

 casts a futile fly into the fast disappearing water. The 

 trout, hurriedly withdrawn to cover, show no interest 

 in his efforts, and his pursuit yields him no pleasure. 

 He longs impatiently for a change, but seeks in vain 

 the promise of a break in the monotonously brilliant 

 sunshine. Hourly he scans the horizon for a sign 

 of rain, but no sign is given him ; not a cloud even the 

 size of a man's hand rewards his gaze. He retires at 

 night praying that in the morning his ears may be 

 gladdened by the sound of the rain-drops pattering on 

 the pane, but he awakes to a day as bright and serene 

 as the days that have gone before it. As the end of 

 his holiday approaches, bringing with it no change in 

 the aspect of the sky, hope's gradually paling fires are 

 finally reduced to ashes. He is the sport of Fate. On 

 the last evening of his stay the wind veers to the south 

 and dark clouds, charged with rain, obscure the heavens, 



