8G 
THE PISHING GAZETTE 
[January 21, 1893 
it rolling through a hatchway, which formed the 
boundary between Mr. Ilamman’s and their own 
part of the water. Onward it came, a tremendous 
volume of thick, black, suffocating matter, sur¬ 
rounding and smothering every one of the poor 
fish, who were taken out dead by the bucketful. 
I am told Messrs. Taskers were much distressed 
at the catastrophe. Still, that did not help Mr. 
Hammans rnucli, who, in addition to losing his 
fish, had his water completely clogged up with 
mud, which most riparian owners would have 
sent on to their next neighbour. But he being a 
true sportsman, carefully avoided a recurrence 
of the calamity, by having the offending mud 
properly cleaned out on to the banks. 
From the junction of the I’ill Brook and the 
Anton to Clatford bridge, the water winds 
through open meadows, after which the banks 
become thickly wooded on either side, so that 
wading is necessary down to the iron bridge. 
Then follows a straight canal-like piece of river, 
with a good path on the right bank; it fishes 
best from the latter. Several years ago, when 
the paper mills were still standing, F. Giles, Esq , 
the proprietor, and his opposite neighbour, had a 
hitter dispute over the fishing at this point. The 
feeling ran so high that one day the opposing 
parties each collected a boatful of men, who met 
in the middle of the stream, and there ensued a 
regular naval encounter, in which one man barely 
escaped drowning, whilst another nearly had his 
ribs stoved in. Eventually, the matter was 
settled in the law courts, to the satisfaction of 
the lawyers, if not to that of the litigants, who 
had to pay some thirteen hundred pounds for 
their afternoon’s amusement. 
Below the hatches of the old mill is a round, 
shallow, wide pool, full of fish ; and beyond the 
pool the water takes a bend round a small island 
and joins the main river again at the celebrated 
Lady Mead. This is a noted piece of fishing— 
slow running, wide, and pretty deep, when the 
fish are nearly always rising. There is no spot 
on the Test or Anton to which I would rather 
take a friend than here if I wanted to make sure 
of his getting a fish. Colonel Earle once rented 
the water for a time, and gave me many an excel¬ 
lent day’s sport on it. Little Carter was generally 
my most successful fly. From Westover to 
where the Anton joins the Teat the right bank 
belongs to the Red Rice estate, and the left to 
W. Isemonger, Esq., who leases it to Dr. Cheadle. 
The lower part of the water used to be splendid 
for Mayfly, but I have never seen any above 
Westover. 
About twelve years ago a rather amusing 
incident occurred on a little stream draining off' 
the water meadows about a quarter of a mile above 
Fullerton Station. The owner—or the squire, as 
he is called in this neighbourhood—was fishing 
the main river and asked me to try the little 
stream, which I did, nothing loath, and made 
(with Mayfly) such a phenomenal bag as fairly to 
astonish both him and his keeper. The latter 
could not understand it at all, for he had never 
hadtouch opinion of that particular water, so I ad¬ 
vised the squire to try it himself the next day. On 
our way home we met a mutual friend,'also a fisher¬ 
man, who, seeing the .=port we had bad, was 
anxious to try his hand too, and asked if the 
squire would not give him a day. 
“ You may go to-morrow and fish anywhere 
you like, provided you leave the water meadow 
stream alone,” was the reply. 
D. accepted the condition readily, and set out 
early next morning to see wdiat luck was in store 
for him. Now, it is a curious psychological fact 
that, from the days of Eve onward, mankind have 
ever displayed a peculiar inclination for doing 
what they are forbidden. The more 1). thought 
over the matter the more firmly convinced he 
bet'ame that the water meadow stream was the 
one spot he desired to fish. It was there, he 
knew, that we had made our haul, and was 
naturally anxious to go and do likewise. Whilst 
he was thinking and longing he saw the squire 
getting into the Andover train, for, as 1 have 
already said, the stream and station are close 
together. 
“ Off to London for the day at least,” thought 
D. with a throb of joy. “ I really think I might 
venture to try the stream,” which he straightway 
did, and found the water realised his expectations 
so completely that he forgot all else. So absorbed 
was he that he never noticed how time passed, or 
even troubled to look up when the return train 
from Andover stopped at the station, though it 
would have been well for him had he done so. At 
last he was roused by hearing some one come up 
sharply behind him, and an angry voice demanding 
what he meant by fishing there. He turned round 
in haste, and found himself, to his horror, face to 
face with the squire, just returned from Andover. 
He had gone up by one train and back by the 
next, and so caught D. red-handed. Boor D. 
never got another day’s fishing on that water. 
The Anton joins the Test just below Fullerton 
Mill, a most picturesque spot. It seems expressly 
made for the benefit of artists and lovers of the 
artistic in nature, as a perfect ideal of what a 
mill ought to be. Whether the inhabitants find 
its interior equally delightful I don’t know; it 
looks as if it was not quite watertight in parts, 
but that, to cjuote a popular author, is another 
story. Although the fish in the Anton are not 
equal to those of the Test, either in regard to size 
or colour, it is a sporting, well cared for little 
river, and so much appreciated that I do not 
think there is a single yard of it to be rented for 
love or money. 
WINTRY WEATHER SALMON FISH¬ 
ING.—‘‘PETER DONE FOR. 
By TEE Old Gudgeon. 
It was a dull raw day in February, 1879. 
London still lay in her unattractive winter 
habiliments. I sat in a little stuffy room in 
Borough-road, my head leaning heavily on my 
cold clammy hands, my eyes wearily watching 
the last efforts of ati expiring fire. I had, to my 
intense satisfaction, balanced a perverse ledger. 
I had dashed it with vicious energy into the 
coldest corner of my office. 
I felt better after this action had been per¬ 
formed. My w'ork was finished for the day, and 
I was not to resume duty until a fortnight had 
passed away. 
I was tired, else I should have given noisier 
expression to my pleasure than that afforded by 
the plaintive whistle which, pitched wrongly and 
crowded with semitones, escaped my lips to lose 
itself up the chimney. 
I’resently my door was hurriedly opened to 
admit a flying envelope, then closed with a 
bang. 
I glanced carelessly at the missive as it lay at 
feet, but noticing a northern post-mark, some¬ 
what excitedly picked it up. A brief perusal of 
the few lines inside had an effect not unlike that 
produced by a glass of “ Glenlivet.” London in 
its dejection passed from view and from mind. 
Pleasant pictures of Deeside and the bonnie Dee 
rose before me, and I saw through a Scottish 
haze the Cairngorms loom darkly distant. 
With an alertness that “totting” had not 
slain, I jumped upon my stool, and, passing my 
hand along a dusty shelf, brought down a bulky 
pocket-book. Opening it carefully, I lovingly 
looked upon an array of neatly arranged fly- 
hooks. Sandy D- had given them me in a 
present. He was now expecting me north, and— 
kindly soul—had asked me to be his guest. 
A day, cheerless in its slcetiness, passed, to 
me, slowly away, and when the light of another 
battled with the fog, I was carried away by the 
N.B. train from King’s Cross. 
Sandy had spoken of possible sport in his 
letter; my rod was not forgotten if my ’bacca 
pouch was left behind. For some hundred miles 
I was bored to death (or nearly so) by a garrulous 
cockney who was bound for Edinburgh, and who, 
finding I was a Scotchman, persistently ci’oss- 
questioned me regarding the manners and cus¬ 
toms that prevailed in the “land o’ cakes.” 
“They haint got no trousers, I believe,” he said, 
with an interrogatory squint and a qi;e:r smile. 
“ No,” I said, “ they wear brecks.” 
“A sort of kilt 1 suppose .* ” 
“ Yes, some of them are wide enough.” 
“No chance of a good feed, I daresay, unless 
you can take porridge ? ” 
I asked him if he had been at school, and he 
left the com])artment at the next stoi)ping-place. 
I was engaged drawing an extraordinary fish 
from a very strangely coloured river, when a 
stentorian voice shouted me awake with “ Come 
awa’ mon,an’ nae sleep there a’ nicht.” “ Hallo ! 
Sandy, are we at Aberdeen already ? ” “ An’ 
time tult I’m thinkin’, ye’re nearly an ’oor late.” 
Beside a glowing fire I enjoyed the “ cakes ” 
that I suppose were associated in my cockney 
friend’s mind with porridge, and, having booked 
for Dee Station, we were soon whirling towards 
“ Skirlie,” the pleasant residence of my friend 
Sandy. 
The air was keen, the stars brightly gathered 
round the greater luminary, and the Dee threw 
from her rippling waters a thousand corruscatious 
of brilliancy as we left the little Deeside cabin. 
The road to “ Skirlie ” was a very eccentric 
one. Now we were seemingly a long distance 
from the river, and anon we found ourselves quite 
close to it. Trees there were in abundance, but 
gaunt and ghostly they stood, like an army of 
skeletons, with form but no life. “ Skirlie ” stood 
upon a wood-clad brae. As we slowly walked up 
the carefully-cleared pathway that led to the 
door, I cast a backward and downward glance 
On the river, where 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous 
gleam of the moonlight. 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
devious spirit. 
Across, the valley rose an irregular forest of 
trees, that seemed to brush the stars from their 
blue setting each time they gently swayed in the 
wind that, not boisterous, but active, set them in 
motion. 
“ When there’s nae muckle daein’ in the 
fushing,” Sandy, with his gun and his favourite 
doggie, is as often in the woods as he is on the 
water. 
Stretching away west in purple gloom were the 
Cairngorm mountains, and through an opening 
in the trees I could see south, a few farmhouses 
with cosily-lit windows. “ Come awa’ in ; fou 
are ye ? ” 
Such a treat after my long journey, with its 
preceding associations of fog and melancholia. 
The blazing log in the ample fireplace spluttering 
the warmest of welcomes; the spotless tablecloth, 
on which were daintily set the plain but delight¬ 
ful viands that fill a Scotch larder; the plainly, 
but tastefully-furnished parlour, commonly called 
“ the room,” where every evidence of earnest 
labour was seen, from polished fireirons to glisten¬ 
ing mahogany; the pleasant face of my hostess, 
who, in immaculate apron, busily, but not fussily, 
attended to our wants; and the quiet pleasure of 
Sandy at my appearance in his home—all con¬ 
tributed to chase weariness away and rouse from 
sluggard life the “ laugh of long ago.” 
Supper finished, we adjourned “ ben the hoose,” 
where pipes were speedily found and tumblers 
filled with toddy of the real native Lochnagar. 
The evening wore on and auld accjuaintances 
dropped in to roughly but kindly squeeze my 
fingers, and sincerely inquire “Hoo are ye gettiti' 
on i’ Lunnon ? ” Soon a considerable circle was 
formed round the fire. Jess (Sandy’s wife) found 
it necessary to leave us, and, free from the pos¬ 
sible charge of selfishness, we jocosed unre¬ 
strainedly on things masculine. My old fishing 
antagonist, Donald Maepherson, was present, 
and very few words provoked a friendly con¬ 
troversy. Of course we differed in our methods 
of fish deception. He stuck, however, with cha¬ 
racteristic stubbornness, to past habit, and 
eventually I made a w’ager. There was a big 
pool close to what was termed the “ Shakkin’ 
briggie,” a structure that crossed the Dee about 
a mile from “ Skirlie,” known as Peter’s Pot. An 
angling Peter of byegone days was the great 
patron of this pool, hence its name. But now there 
was in it a salmon of immense size, facetiou.sly 
termed Peter, that hitherto had been too fly. 
He was said to make it his home the whole 
season through, year after year, when he came up 
from the sea. Donald defied me to catch Peter 
with the bait I had so strongly defended. The 
challenge was accepted, and, “ rain or shine,” 
“ snaw or sleet,” we were next day to try our skill. 
Next day chanced to be “ Festerins e’en,” and, 
in consideration of a probable victory, we were to 
meet in the evening at “Skirlie” to introduce 
“ Peter ” to our “ sauty bannocks.” The prospect 
of such a treat brought hungry tears to Sandy’s 
eyes. Good-nights were said, and in dreamland 
my success was prognosticated. 
* * * 
“ Great Scot! here’s a case,” I exclaimed, as, 
entering Sandy’s cosy kitchen the following 
