268 
THE FISHING GAZETTE 
capped flycatcher followed me all down the river 
on the opposite side; he seemed to be particularly 
amused and interested in my flies, and frequently 
when I threw across towards him he would dart 
out and make believe to catch them, but I am sure 
he was only joking, he knew quite well what they 
were made of, his bright rpiick little eye could 
easily see through these “ barbed betrayers,” as 
Canon Scott-Holland calls them. 
I might have mentioned before that we 
were three in our party, the third being a 
young disciple of the Major’s, who managed 
to get his flies on the w'ater in very good 
style, but in a manner quite original, and 
contrary to accepted methods; nevertheless, he 
got many a good rise, and lost many a good 
fish, whether trout or grayling, for he was not 
an adept at landing his fish, and besides he had 
no net. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, 
to him belongs the honour of having hooked 
and landed the biggest trout that was caught on 
this expedition. 
Easter Monday—a brilliant, genial, lovely day 
—we sallied forth in the morning as usual, and 
we did our usual execution amongst the gray¬ 
ling, but trout would not be lured. I may re¬ 
mark here that nearly all our fish whether trout 
or grayling were caught before one o’clock. Not 
a rise could we get in the afternoon or evening. 
This was our last day, we had to return to town 
in the evening, and, alas, that 1 should have to re¬ 
cord it, or rather, I should rejoice that I am alive to 
tell the tale, for on this morning the “ Amateur 
Angler ” came to grief. 
I saw a rise, the only one I had seen that morn¬ 
ing, within six inches of the opposite bank and 
under a small bush. It was a long cast, my fly 
hooked itself on to a twig of the bush, just above 
the trout, and would not come back. I was 
wading, the stream being about two feet deep all 
across. I came within a yard or two of the bush. 
I could see the gravel bottom all the way across. 
I stepped unwarily on an innocent-looking bed 
of weeds, and down I sank, down, down, till I 
feared I was making a short cut to the Anti¬ 
podes. My waders were soon waterlogged, and 
my legs fast in the soft sinking and yielding mud. 
Happily for me the Major was there, he rushed 
into the water and came to ray help. I should 
have found a difficulty in extracting myself, for 
I could not lift my legs at all. \Vith his 
welcome help I struggled ashore, and started off 
for home. The house was quite near, if I 
could only get to it by crossing another 
branch of the river, otherwise I must 
take a long round. 1 reached that river. 
It was a full strongly-flowing stream, and seemed 
to me to be about 2|ft. deep. 1 am wet, 1 said to 
myself, I cannot get much wetter, I will make 
the venture. I rushed into the strong current. 
In the middle of the river I found the water up to 
my armpits, and flowing strongly. Luckily that 
was the deepest part; it soon grew shallower. 
'I’here must have been many gallons of water in 
my boots, but there was no mud. I scrambled 
over the gravel, and was really thankful to find 
myself on land. I lay down, and turned a small 
river out of nny boots, ran off to the farm, changed 
everything, had my wet clothes hung out in the 
hot sun, and within an hour, filled with new 
enthusiasm, I was down at the riverside again, 
fishing away more vigorously than ever. 
()ur brief holiday came too quickly to an end. 
We had good sport, though, for the reasons 
given already, our baskets were light. Indeed, 
there was a sort of satisfaction, to one of us at 
least, after having had a pleasant tussle with a 
gamesome grayling, and showing him for once in 
his life the upper world and the green grass, in 
sending him back rejoicing to his native element. 
'I’hink what a yarn he must have to spin 
to his astonished brethren about the wonders he 
had seen in a world where there is no water: he 
will try it again some day. 
Last June we had a delightful time on this 
water when the ^lay-fly helped to fill our baskets. 
Let us hope the gonial Doctor will be with us 
when the next May-fly time comes round. 
Lear Sir jest a line to you to let you no that 
the river is haw rit wons mor.” 
Above, says the hon. sec. of the Sussex 
Piscatorial Society, “ is a copy of a H.C. received 
by a friend of mine from a water bailiff.” 
AX AUTUMN REMIXISCEXCE OF 
THE HIGHLANDS, 
By Old Sam. 
“ Away to the brook, 
All your tackle outlook, 
Here's a day that is worth a year’s wishing : 
See that all things be right. 
For t’would be a spite. 
To want tools when a man’s goes a-fishing.” 
Wake up, Tom, wake up! 
With this exclamation I was startled out of a 
delicious snooze early one morning last autumn by 
Cousin Aleck who, before I had well opened my 
eyes, fell to shaking me vigorously and to such 
good purpose, that in a very few minutes I was 
ready to go downstairs to breakfast. My holi¬ 
days were being spent on the borders of the 
Highlands of Bonnie Scotland, in the county of 
Aberdeenshire. The time had sped past too 
swiftly, and now only a day or two of my vacation 
remained. The evening before found us two sit¬ 
ting together comfortably round the parlour fire 
arranging a day’s fishing which was to lead us to 
the other side of one of the numerous “ Bens ” 
dispersed so widely through mountainous Scotia. 
We were all the more anxious to go on this 
expedition for the double reason that fly-trouting 
was fast drawing to a close, and that we had 
made up our minds to have before it ended a take 
that would be our record of the year in size and 
number of trout. 
Breakfast over, we got out our rods and satisfied 
ourselves that they, and our stock of flies as well, 
were in proper condition. “ Clara est die,” quoted 
my companion as we stepped out into the crisp, 
morning air. A subtle fragrance seemed borne on 
the slight breeze, and the dew sparkled ’neath 
the rays of the early sun in rainbow-tinted hues. 
Already the woods and fields were vocal. Again 
and again the melodious strains came floating 
along, and were echoed and re-echoed as hundreds 
of the feathered songsters of the grove took up 
the song, flitting meanwhile in joyous activity 
from tree to tree. Presently we entered the 
woods beyond the farm which skirted the moun¬ 
tain, at the farther side of which ran the moun¬ 
tain stream for which we were bound. 
A slight wind ruffled the trees, and a few of 
the first withering leaves were falling. They 
rustled crisply beneath our feet as we wended 
along the narrow woodland path in Indian file. 
Soon we were down in a hollow between clumps 
of ferns and raspberry bushes, with huge rocks 
of fantastic shape towering above us. Here the 
air was fresh, and fragrant with the odours 
exhaling from the mosses which so richly car¬ 
peted the ground under the trees and beauti¬ 
fied the rude boulders that obtruded on our 
path, and on which we had to keep watchful 
eyes. 
Leaving this delightful dell behind us, we 
essayed to climb a wooded knoll—the ash stoles 
all around us. Here and there grew the silvery- 
barked birch, with its curious thick growths, 
which in our boyhood days we fondly imagined 
were birds’ nests, until closer examination dis¬ 
pelled the illusion. A hare left its form in the 
long grass as we came near, and darted away over 
the heather with long and swift bounds. 
Onward, still onward, and the trees began to 
grow fewer; the winter winds had thinned them 
out. We had left the beech, birch, and oak 
behind, and only firs, with here and there a 
mountain ash, struggled for existence on the rocky 
soil. Finally these also were left behind, and 
now all around were lichen-covered rocks, set in 
the straggling heather and uniting with it to 
give shelter to the hardy ferns, which in the pro¬ 
tected nooks lent their fresh beauty to the arid 
waste. 
Onward and upward still we toiled, with scarce 
a pause to rest, until we reached what had seemed 
from below to be the summit. Standing on it we 
saw that the “ topmost tow’ring height ” lay still 
farther along. Having “ viewed the landscape 
o’er ” for a little space of time, we set out to .scale 
the real summit of the mountain. After a half- 
hour’s toil up a rock-strewn path we reached the 
small rounded platform which formed the crown 
of the lofty “ Ben.” From it we saw the peaks of 
the other “ Bens ” as far as the eye could reach. 
A glorious landscape lay beneath our feet unfold¬ 
[Apeil 15, 1893 
ing its beauties at every point. The forests 
under the gladsome rays of the early sun seemed 
to rejoice in their many-tinted autumn garb. The 
trees were laying aside their summer dress, and 
putting on the more brilliant colouring of the 
later season. The fir and the ash alone seemed to 
retain their green coloured mantle, and stood out 
in contrast to the orange and russet shades of the 
other trees. Over all hung the slight haze, 
peculiar to the sunny days of our “ Indian 
summer.” The beauty and peacefulness of the 
scene held us as in a spell, which we both seemed 
loth to break. 
” Time flies,” remarked my companion, where¬ 
at we took up our rods and other chattels, and 
proceeded to descend the mountain path. We 
made rapid progress, as the way was compara¬ 
tively free from the boulders which so bestrewed 
the other side of the mountain. Halfway down 
we crossed a brawling stream, then a bog where 
the turf yielded beneath our feet, covered with 
tufts of the brown reedy cotton grass shorn of 
the rich crop of summer wool. Away down below 
we could see a fox trotting along by the side of 
the stream with something in his mouth, which 
our telescope showed to he a young rabbit. 
In that hollow yonder a tree has fallen, torn 
up by the tempe.sts. The roots form a bank 
about 3ft. high, with quantities of turf clinging 
to them. This forms a favourite nesting place 
for the wren and other small birds. That large 
bunch of sticks high up in the fir is a sparrow- 
hawk’s nest. If you come back in the spring yon 
will very likely find him at home. Supposing 
you were to take a fancy for climbing after the 
eggs, it would he advisable to refrain from looking 
up when climbing the tree, unless you want to be 
temporarily blinded. There is always a great 
quantity of dust lodging in the bark of trees like 
the fir, ready to fill the eyes of the unwary 
climber. 
The path leads down by an old quarry, over¬ 
grown by furze and bracken. Last spring I 
found a pigeon’s nest up in that ledge, which 
seems to be hanging in mid air. In the nest 
were two lovely white eggs, tinged with the 
faintest blush of pink. A little further on we 
came to the stream. It was in prime condition 
for the fly, a slight breeze now and again ruffling 
the surface. I commenced with a light brown 
fly, and in half-an-hour had landed a half- 
pounder. Aleck seemed to be having good sport 
too. But the chief event came off about eleven 
o’clock. In a deep and dark pool, surrounded by 
wild mountain scenery, I espied the form of a 
trout that made my pulse beat fast and faster. 
Oh, if I could only lure him from his native 
element! I was a young piscator, but I put forth 
my best powers to catch that trout, and I suc¬ 
ceeded. Fixing on a fresh fly, I crept on hands 
and knees to a convenient distance for casting, 
and then with the greatest caution, I threw the 
fly just a foot before his nose. If I missed the 
first cast there was little chance of taking him, 
for these old trout are very wary. 
Hurrah ! He has taken it, and is off at light¬ 
ning speed, while the line runs out with a whirr 
like the sound of the wings of a startled partridge. 
Hither and thither, up and down, he rushes. 
Next he takes a magnificent leap in the air, 
turning a somersault, and displaying his lovely 
speckled sides. 
“ Hand him ticht; baud him ticht,” exclaims a 
voice behind me. A hurried glance shows the 
owner of the voice to be a keeper, greatly interested 
in my efforts to “ baud him ticht.” Soon the 
fish begins to tire, and nearer and nearer I draw 
him, and at last the net is below him. He makes 
a last game struggle for liberty, but all in vain; 
he is lifted from his watery home on to the green 
turf of the burn side. Ah! that was indeed a 
proud moment for me. 
With varying sport the day passed on. With 
worm we caught a half dozen eels, but as we were 
not particularly fond of such fish we returned 
them to their native stream. After lunch we 
went for a ramble across the moors, leaving our 
rods and fish in a safe hiding place. All the 
common was purple with heath, blent with the 
deep crimson of the bramble leaves, and the 
tawny orange of the bracken. The finches were 
swarming on the thistles, the ripe seeds of which 
were a feast to them. Presfntly we crossed a 
cultivated patch of ground, where the rooks rose 
lazily before us, and a jackdaw among them cried. 
