not so defiant and reckless in their defiance as they are
months later. Let us still be thankful; a kelt is better than nothing,
a spring fish is welcome, and we must be content with such chances as
we can obtain.

Consider the time consumed on a short winter day by six landings.
There is the getting in the other lines by winching them up, making
bait and fly fast to the winch bar, rowing to shore, sometimes from the
middle of a 200 yards' river, and securing adequate foothold ashore.
The fish is to be firmly controlled with a bent rod all the while, and
when he comes in there is no decisive finish with the cleek, since your
kelt must have his freedom unharmed if possible. The dexterity with
which the boatmen carry out these operations is marvellous, the result
of being masters of their calling combined with long practice; also
because they have the soul of the sportsman almost to a man. The cost
of six landings, in fact, works out at nearly half an hour a time, and
the reward on this particular day was one good fish of 18 lb., which
had taken a Black Dog. The flies were most attractive, and there were
some pulls at tails of bait or feathers, two or three rises, and a
respectable fish which remained for five minutes on one of the baits.
By a pull, let me explain, I mean the rattle of the reel for a fraction
of a minute, a sharp dip of the rod top, and the bait or fly resuming
its progress "as you were."

To end this narrative I must not forget the novel effect of the snow
clinging to the tree tops. The firs high up the steeps on either side
for a couple of hours looked as if they had burst into rich white
blossom in full bearing. The small sleet, which followed in the
afternoon as a natural fizzling out of the storm, and a warm wind
quickly did their duty, and we had the pleasure of seeing the pines
shed their blossoms before our eyes; they fell with melancholy drip
down to the carpets of rotting leaves, leaving the trees to their
funereal winter black.

One other musing of the day. There is a legend in Nithsdale that Burns
used to go a-fishing when he lived at Dumfries. If so, it is quite
possible that his famous poetic idea came to him one day while fishing,
perhaps with a brother exciseman:

And like a snowflake on the river,
One moment here, then gone for ever.

Friday brought a contrast indeed. A sharp frost hardened up the
country during the night--and the sun rose boldly into a cloudless sky