170 



A SCOTTISH FLY-FISHER 



the north wind will be appreciated by every fly-fisher. 

 That wind has certainly done me nothing but unkind- 

 nesses, and its last and crowning injury I am unlikely 

 ever to forget. Many suns have gone down on my 

 wrath since my unhappy experience of its malice, and 

 they will be followed by many more before I can think 

 of it with equanimity. 



I was fishing a Loch Fyne-side loch in which the 

 trout are so plentiful and so ready to accept what the 

 honest angler offers them that sport soon palls and one 

 grows weary of the useless slaughter. Their facile cap- 

 ture involves no skill, and, since they are small, yields 

 little pleasure. On the occasion referred to, however, 

 they were unusually dour, and the unremitting industry 

 of a long day was inadequately rewarded with a dozen 

 poor fish. 



During an entire week 

 the wind sat — if anything 

 in such impetuous motion 

 can properly be said to sit 

 — stubbornly in the north. 

 It blew a perfect hurricane, 

 and brought with it fre- 

 quent showers of hail and 

 sleet, against the pitiless 



