From Fox's Earth 



Ladies do not fish in the south. Though the 

 old borderer was a raider, it would seem as though 

 his wife and daughter stayed at home. It is so 

 with his descendants. I never saw one, save 

 once. She was catching parr about the length of 

 her little finger parr are to be caught in the 

 Tweed by the simple process of dropping a fly, 

 any way, all summer through. She seemed to be 

 interested in the small fry, which goes to show 

 that she was not a borderer. As a rule even 

 visitors do not fish. 



Perhaps it is that fishing is a contemplative 

 engagement, in which the oft-long intervals 

 between the rises dream by with the idyllic flow 

 of the current at least, they so dream to the 

 flow of a border stream. Ladies may not be 

 contemplative. Trouting leads along miles of 

 chequered bank into wild and solitary places, 

 where the sheepdog's bark is as a clap of thunder. 

 Ladies do not like to be miles away and alone. 



In the north they fish. Royal ladies fish ; are 

 said to cast a long, sure line, and land skilfully. 

 They fish for salmon, which is more exciting and 

 less idyllic. Others follow their example as in 

 fashion bound. Whether they go far from com- 

 panionship I cannot tell. I can scarcely imagine 

 them being led on from morning to night, taking 

 their frugal lunch by the alder tree, with not so 

 much as a shepherd's hut in sight. It flashes 

 across me that I met one scrambling over the 



