January II, 1893] 
liHIXEY CiOES SALMON FISHING.* 
Brixky liiid licpii for some time meditating a 
d!i 3 /’s salmon-tisiiing. lie had taken out his rod 
and put it together more than once—he had even 
run the lines through the rings and made fancy 
casts at olpccts on the ground—hut there was 
something in the whole thing which, in a way, 
iippalled him. The twenty-foot rod was so unlike 
t he light bamboo to which he had been accustomed 
in bottom fishing—the reel was so heavy, the 
line so thick .and so long. The wide, ra])id river, 
1 00 , was no ]oke ; and lie looked at his wading- 
boot.s, and actual!}’ one day jiut them on to see 
how the}’ felt. '1 he decision he came to was that 
his feelings must be very like those of a “hog in 
armour.” In short, the going out to fish for 
salmon seemed to him something akin to entering 
upon a now line of liusiness, or going into battle 
for the first time, or riding a stceplcch.aso on a 
stiange horse and in an nnknow’ii country—hue 
evej'ything, he wisely decided, must have a 
beginning. 
On announcing one morning to Sandy his 
resolution to take him with him to the river, he 
was rather surprised at the manner in which he 
received the intelligence. 
“I’m thinking,” said Sandy, “thefushing is no 
yours—-that is, in Spey. In the burn ye can fush 
—hut in Spey, no ! ” 
“ Y hat is all this ” cried Brixey. “Not fish 
'5* Spey ? Indeed ! I tell you, man, the 
fishing is ours. Mr. M'Snail told me distinctly 
we have the right of fishing. I remember his 
very words—they are the same as those in the 
advertisement—‘ there is fishing to be had in the 
Spey!’” 
“ Oh, aye ! there’s fushing to be had in Spey— 
there’s nae dout o’ that—hut she’s just let to 
anitherman—a lord.” 
“ I advise you,” said Downey, “ to go and fish. 
M‘Snail said you have the fishing, and fish I 
W’ould if I were you.” 
“ Certainly,” replied Brixey: “ I mean to go. 
The two lads will go to-day with you and Peter, 
and I will take Sandy with me ; he can show me 
the best holes for fish, and the boundaries.” 
“ Eh, sure, I ken weel the boondaries,” said 
Sandy, “ but for a’ that Mr. M'Snail telled ye 
the fushing is let to the lord.” 
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Brixey, 
whose indignation began to he roused. “You will 
attend me to the river to-day. Fish I will, and 
Mr. M'Snail shall be answerable for the con- 
serpiences.” 
“ Well,” said Sandy, “ it's no for the likes o’ 
me to say it, but I am thinking Mr. M'Snail will 
hae to answer. It’s no for me to say—but it’s no’ 
that bad for fushing the day.” 
It was, indeed, a fishing day—that is, in so far as 
appearances would lead to such a conclusion. Ex¬ 
perience, however, teaches that a good fishing day 
is about as uncertain, in its prognostics, as a fine 
scenting day, and even as the best runs have been 
often got with hounds when everything seemed 
against it; when no “ southerly wind and cloudy 
sky ” proclaimed the hunting morning, on raw, 
cold days, the wind in the north, and even snow 
on the ground—so is it with salmon-fishing. 
There are, however, certain negative signs, which 
are next to infallible, to keep the fisher from 
hogging the water in vain. When huge mountains 
of cloud, with dazzling “ silver lining,” are. piled 
up in the sky, there is small chance of moving a 
fish. If the vapour is hanging on the crest of 
the upland, when there’s a “ must on the hull,” 
as we have too often been told when we w’ere 
anxiously looking out for a fishing day, the fish 
will scarcely ever take a lly. But this was as 
likely a morning as could be hoped for—the 
atmo.spbere not too clear, the distances not too 
sharply defined, the temperature genial, not hot, 
fho sky partially clouded, but not with those 
monstrous fleecy masses spoken of above. There 
W'as a light wind up-stream, and the water, Sandy 
gave it as his ojjinioii, was in first-rate order, 
neither too high or too low, and a good colour. 
So Brixey, full of hope, not unmixed with some 
misgivings as to his qualifications for ihe work 
cut out for him, and Sandy, with a look of resig¬ 
nation to his fate, started together for the river, 
* From “The Tommiebej? Shootings,” by Thomas 
Jeans. (By permission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and 
Sons, Limited.) 
THE EJSITINCr GAZETTE 
the latter armed with a clip, and carrying over 
his shoulder his master’s wading-boots; Brixey 
bearing the rod in its cover. 
“ And who is this lord ? ” he inquired of Sandy, 
“thi.s lord you talk of, that rents, as you say, 
tlie river? \'ou must be wrong there—the 
thing is impossible I But who is he ? ” 
“ I'lh! it’s a lord wi’ an English name. I can 
no niiiid the name. “We just ca’ him ‘the lord.’ 
He s a beautirul fusher, and there’s no a stane in 
Spey he does na ken as well as if he was born 
and bred in the strath.” 
“ 1 shall most certainly come to an understand¬ 
ing with_ his lordship, if w’e should happeii to 
meet,” said Brixey. “ Ry-the-bye, does be live in 
the neighbourhood ? ” 
“■ Eh, sure—whan he’s in the country. Ye'll 
see the lodge down bye frae thejoool of the brae— 
all I it’s there we’ll try first. If there’s a fush in 
the w'ater he'll be there—it’s a yirincipal place, 
the Pool o’ the Brae.” 
A walk of about a mile and a-halE brought 
them to the river, which was here confined to a 
narrower bed than usual. The bank they were 
standing upon was low and shelving, and the 
water dashing against the rough stones that 
checked its career was broken into bubbling 
ripples as it washed the shore. On the opposite 
side it was fiow’ing smoothly and noiselessly at 
the base of a precipitous rock, which gave the 
name to the spot—a name unpronounceable in 
Gaelic, but, being interpreted, the Pool of the 
Brae. After preserving this character for a con¬ 
siderable distance—till the rock, in fact, receded 
from the w’ater side—the stream became wider 
and more rapid, eddying, and foaming, and 
battling with the masses of rock, some of which 
lifted up their round polished heads high and 
dry out of the water. 
Brixey could not help contrasting in his mind 
this brawling torrent with the silent, smoothly- 
gliding stream in which his punt used to be 
moored, head and stern, when he fished for 
roach or barbel at Ditton, or Hampton, on the 
Thames. The advantage, in his eyes, lay very 
decidedly with the latter river. Nothing, he 
thought, short of a miracle could enable any¬ 
body to catch a fish in such a mill-tail, such a 
whirlpool as that. 
AVhile he was, with the awkwardness of a 
tyro, getting into his wading boots, Sandy was 
putting together the rod, tying the joints care¬ 
fully together—a process never before seen by 
his master. The line was passed through the 
rings, the casting-line attached, and nothing 
remained but to choose a lly. This was a much 
more difficult matter than it might seem, from 
the great variety of good-looking Hies in Brixey’s 
book — one w’as too bright, and one was too 
large—another would be the “ verra thing,” if it 
had but the turkey-wing—another would be “ no 
that bad,” if it was not so sma’. He picked out 
at length, after much deliberation, the dullest 
and meanest-looking of the lot, tied it on the 
casting-line, and handed the rod to Brixey. 
He was to begin, Sandy told him, at the head 
of the pool, throwing quite over to the rock on 
the other side. And now began Brixey’s trouble. 
It was in vain he tried to get out his lino. Neither 
by violent effort, nor by coaxing could it be 
induced to obey orders. He Hogged the water 
till his arms fairly ached, but still the line always 
fell in a heap. “Throw to the rock on the other 
side, indeed ! ” he soliloquised. 
“Just take up the line short, and throw out,” 
said Sandy, “ an’ then gie out a wee bit mair, an’ 
then anither bittock.” 
Brixey tried this—it was no use, so he handed 
the rod to Sandy, fully anticipating a failure from 
him also. He, however, letting out a length of 
line, which to Brixey seemed utterly impossible 
to lift ag.ain, made a cast, and the fly dropped 
lightly within half a foot of the rock. After 
explaining how this wa.s to be accomplished, he 
gave back the rod to his master, who proceeded 
to put in practice the lesson he had received. He 
was in the act of drawing in his fly for a fresh 
cast, when a big swirl was seen in mid stream. 
His rod was suddenly jerked downwards, so that 
the point touched the water, and the wheel was 
heard spinning rapidly—grinding delicious music 
—as the line ran out with a velocity to cut the 
fingers off. 
“ Luft the point ! Up wi’ the rod ! Dinna touch 
the line ! Oh ! it’s a bonny fush ! ” cried Sandy, 
21 
helping Brixey to raise the rod, and seeing that 
the line was free. “ Hand up the rod—are ye 
daft? Bit the butt to him! Shouther the rod! 
Ech, wow ! He’s off the noo, and ye maun follow 
an’ bo upsides wi’ him. Save us a’! wind uji! ” 
roared Sandy as the line became slack. It had 
fouled a big stone. “ Ye maun tak’ to the water,” 
cried Sandy in despair; “it’s no deep. He’s clean 
gane if ye no clear yon stane.” So Brixey stepped 
charily and cautiously into the water, and was 
instantly nearly carried off his legs. The fish 
was still running, while the line was the wrong 
side of the stone. “Twa steps mair! Just anither!” 
Brixey, who had now got his legs, obeyed mechani¬ 
cally, and was enabled to lift the line over the 
rock. 
“ It’s a’ richt the noo ! ” cried Sandy, clapping 
his hands. “Take in more line, sir. More yet,” 
a new voice was heard to exclaim. “ You will 
lose that fish, sir, if you don’t wind up your line; 
ho is not gone down stream, he is in the deeji 
water over there, and is making most likely up; 
the stream is carrying out your line. They never 
leave this pool. For God’s sake, sir, take in 
your line! I knew it, by the Lord Harry! ” con¬ 
tinued the voice, now pitched in alto. “ There' 
your fish, sir! ” as a heavy salmon jumped high 
out of the water a little way above Brixey, and 
tell back with a loud splash. 
“ To shore, sir, quick! D—n it, sir! don’t 
stay pottering there. Come out of the water, 
I say ! Here, hand me your rod,” and, while 
Brixey was clumsily stepping up the bank, the 
owner of the voice was winding up the line 
vigorously. “ Now, sir, take your rod again ; 
keep a gentle hold upon him—just feel him—no 
more. Bless my soul, sir ! What the devil are 
you after ? ” Brixey, now completely bewildered, 
had allowed the line to bag for a moment. He 
found himself—he did not know why, and he could 
not tell how—following, as well as his damaged 
intellects would allow him to comprehend their 
meaning, the directions of a fine-looking elderly 
gentleman, who was capering about in a high 
state of excitement, with a clip in his hand, while 
a man was standing by, looking on, with a rod 
slanted over his shoulder. 
Doing as he was bid, like a good boy—now 
winding up line, now slackening it off, now going 
a little up the water, then a little down—he suc¬ 
ceeded,in the course of about half an hour (the very 
longest half hour he had ever passed) in bringing 
on his side a heavy salmon, whose bright, silver 
belly flashed in the shallow water. 
“ Now, sir, keep the point of your rod up—well 
up, sir, and walk gently backwards. Steady, sir, 
ste-a-dy ! I have him—a noble fish, by Jupiter! ” 
exclaimed the old gentleman, as he lifted the 
struggling fish, securely clipped under the belly. 
“ And now, sir,” he continued, as he shook the fish 
off, and it was floundering on the bank ere the 
man could give it the coup de grace, “ permit me 
to inquire to whom I am indebted for the pleasure 
of seeing a fish killed in my own water ? ” 
He looked a little warlike as he put the 
question to Brixey, who had handed the rod to 
Sandy, and was now standing helplessly looking at 
the fish, his arms hanging at his side. They were 
almost paralysed. As long as the excitement con¬ 
tinued he felt nothing; he was altogether dead 
beat now. He recognised in the new comer the 
gentleman who had brought the big salmon fo 
the inn at Fochabers the other day. “I think, 
sir,” said the latter again, after waiting some 
little time for a reply, “ I am fairly entitled to 
ask how it happens that 1 find you here killing 
fish in my favourite pool ? ” 
“ Eh ! ye’ll no put a finger on yon fush, Sandy 
Crant,’’ exclaimed the man with the rod angrily : 
“are ye no shamed, man, to-” “Be quiet, 
Donald!” The old gentleman spoke mildly but 
authoritatively. Donald kept on muttering, and 
looking daggers at Sandy, who stood con¬ 
victed—he knew it well. “ I give you my word, 
sir,” said Brixey, “that question was not unlike 
the one I was about to put to you.” “ 1 tauld ye 
—1 tauld ye! ” cried Sandy, addressing .his 
master, “ the fushing was no your.s. It’s no my 
fault.” 
“ Then it would seem,” interrupted the old 
gentleman, “ you can have no excuse for being 
hero, sir !” “ Pardon me, my dear sir,” replied 
Brixey, warmly, “ if I really have been trepass- 
ing I have done it in utter ignorance. I give you 
my honour I fancied I had the right of fishing in 
