pen a volley of questions and remarks upon you
about fishing. This example at once showed the extent of his knowledge
upon the subject by the declaration: "I never have the patience to
fish; it's so long waiting for a bite." He also hinted agreement with
the saying attributed to Johnson. There is not so much ignorance in
these days on the subject, and the majority of people I fancy now know
the difference between sitting down before a painted float and the
downright hard work and incessant activity of a day with salmon or
trout rod.

Next morning, in clean, quiet Kelso, I mused over the intruded opinions
of the gentleman in the train (whom I had ticked off as a good-natured
bagman), and having been warned beforehand by a laconic postscript,
"Prospects not rosy," remembered that in angling there is something
needed besides endurance and energy, and that when you are waiting day
by day for the water to fall into condition there is a substantial
demand upon patience. However, the thought must not spoil breakfast,
nor did it. Then I read my letters, glanced down the columns of the
_Scotsman_, lighted the first tobacco (the best of the day verily!),
and issued forth from the yard of the Cross Keys, hallowed by the
periodical residence of eminent salmon fishers, such as Alfred Denison,
who, with so many of the familiar sportsmen of his day, has gone hence,
leaving pleasant memories behind.

The stony square of the town is in front of you; Forrest's shop is next
door as you stand in the gateway of the old inn, and after a glance at
the sky and at the weathercock on the top of the market house you look
in there. A local fisherman was coming out, and in reply to the
inevitable question as to the state of the river, he said, "Weel, she's
awa' again." Pithy and characteristic, and full of information was
this. It was a verdict--You may fish, but shall fish in vain this day.
The Tweed is away again.

Gloomily now you walk ahead, leaving your call at the tackle shop for a
more convenient season; at present, at any rate, time is of no account.
Past the interesting ruins of Kelso Abbey you proceed, and soon,
leaning over the parapet of Rennie's Bridge, on the right-hand side,
your eye straightaway seeks the Tweedometer fixed against the wall of
Mr. Drummond's Ednam House garden. The bold black figures on the
whitened post mark 2 1/2 ft. above orthodox level. Two days ago the 3
ft. point had been reached; then Tweed sank t