TWEED SALMON FISHING. 271 



Although we were both aware that it was in the highest degree 

 improbable that the fish would take until well on in the forenoon, 

 we were at the waterside soon after 9 a.m. making preparations 

 for what promised to be a great day. A more magnificent morning 

 I never saw ; the air was keen and perfectly still, the woodlands 

 stripped of their leaves by the recent storms, and the brown, ferny 

 undergrowth, and all nature beside, sparkled in the rays of a brilliant 

 sun. The way the fish were rolling about the pools was a sight to 

 see, some of them showing the broad silvery flanks of clean run 

 salmon, others again the brown and red of fish that had been in the 

 river some time. The water was perfect in colour and height, and 

 by ten o'clock a gentle breeze sprang up, bringing with it some 

 welcome clouds. 



The previous half hour had been spent in trying and selecting 

 a casting-line worthy of the occasion, and, most important of all, in 

 choosing the fly. We examined dozen afterdozen of exquisitely dyed 

 and gorgeous insects, Doctors, silver and blue, Durham Rangers, 

 Stevensons, Dusty Millers and innumerable other beautiful speci- 

 mens of the fly-tyer's art, but at last, after a tremendous discussion 

 and a stiff glass of whisky for luck, we came to the conclusion that 

 a double Jock Scott was the thing, and armed with my nineteen 

 foot "Forest" and perfect tackle, we got afloat soon after 10 

 o'clock. In spite of their numbers, however, the fish rose very 

 badly and short at first, and when we got down to our piece de 

 resistance, the celebrated " Sprouston Dub," we had only two fish in 

 the boat. But by that time things had altered for the better, the 

 frost had gone out of the air, the breeze had freshened, and the 

 clouds more frequently overshadowed the sun. At the third cast 

 a good fish rose, and jamming the double steel hard into him, I 



