I40 ANGLING SKETCHES 



There is a fire of autumn colour in the tufted 

 woods that embosom Fernilea. ' Bother the 

 setting sun,' we saj-, and the Maid of Neidpath, 

 and the ' Flowers of the Forest,' and the memories 

 of Scott at Ashiesteil, and of Muckle Mou'd Meg, 

 at Elibank. These are filmy, shadowy pleasures 

 of the fancy, these cannot minister to the mind 

 of him who has been ' broken ' twice, who cannot 

 resume the contest for want of ammunition, and 

 who has not even brought the creature-comfort of 

 a flask. Since that woful day I have lain on the 

 bank and watched excellent anglers skilfully 

 flogging the best of water, and that water full of 

 fish, without hooking one. Salmon-fishing, then, 

 is a matter of chance, or of plodding patience. 

 They will rise on one day at almost any fly (but 

 the sniggler), however ill-presented to them. On 

 a dozen other days no fly and no skill will avail to 

 tempt them. The salmon is a brainless brute and 

 the grapes are sour ! 



If only the gut had held, this sketch would 

 have ended with sentiment, and a sunset, and 

 the music of Ettrick, the melody of Tweed. In 



