270 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



My next experience of rainbow- trout was in the 

 Mississippi Valley. I had been staying for a week on 

 a business visit in the large western town of Minnea- 

 polis, situated on the banks of the Mississippi River. 

 A blazing August sun made the dusty streets dis- 

 tinctly unpleasant, raised a thirst difficult, though not 

 altogether impossible, to quench, and by contrast 

 brought to my mind longing thoughts of the purple 

 heather and rippling burns of my native land, some 

 4,000 miles away, where daily grouse were falling, 

 and trout were being captured by my more fortunate 

 countrymen, while I was transacting business and 

 drinking lager beer in the State of Minnesota, with 

 the thermometer 95 degrees in the shade. 



I was lunching that day with one of my business 

 friends. Our American cousins are the most hos- 

 pitable of mankind. The conversation turned on 

 fishing. With insular prejudice I openly and most 

 unfavourably contrasted the muddy Mississippi and 

 its catfish and ' suckers 'i with the salmon and trout- 

 stocked waters of bonnie Scotland. ' Would you like 

 to catch some rainbow-trout ?' said my host. ' Where 

 are they ?' I doubtingly asked. ' Thirty miles away 

 I can show you plenty,' he answered. I had three 

 days to spare, and the matter was at once arranged. 

 My incredulity as to the existence of the trout, or 

 fishable water anywhere within reasonable distance in 

 which to catch them, was, I trust, more or less suc- 

 cessfully concealed. But the country was dried up 

 with drought. It had not rained for two months, and 

 at that moment extensive forest fires were raging in 

 the northern part of the State. 



The next afternoon, in company with two grain- 

 men, a learned judge, and a doctor, we started on our 



