. In the open water, on the Ettrick, you may see
half a dozen snigglers busy. They all wear high wading trousers; they
are all armed with stiff salmon-rods and huge flies. They push the line
and the top joints of the rod deep into the water, drag it along, and
then bring the hook out with a jerk. Often it sticks in the side of a
salmon, and in this most unfair and unsportsmanlike way the free sport of
honest people is ruined, and fish are diminished in number. Now, the big
fly _may_ have been an honest character, but he was sadly like a rake-
hook in disguise. He did not look as if an fish could fancy him. I,
therefore, sent a messenger across the river to beg, buy, or borrow a fly
at "The Nest." But this pretty cottage is no longer the home of the
famous angling club, which has gone a mile or two up the water and
builded for itself a new dwelling. My messenger came back with one small
fatigued-looking fly, a Popham, I think, which had been lent by some one
at a farmhouse. The water was so heavy that the small fly seemed
useless; however, we fastened it on as a dropper, using the sniggler as
the trail fly; so exhausted were our resources, that I had to cut a piece
of gut off a minnow tackle and attach the small fly to that. The tiny
gut loop of the fly was dreadfully frayed, and with a heavy heart I began
fishing again. My friend on the opposite side called out that big fish
were rising in the bend of the stream, so thither I went, stumbling over
rocks, and casting with much difficulty, as the high overgrown banks
permit no backward sweep of the line. You are obliged to cast by a kind
of forward thrust of the arms, a knack not to be acquired in a moment. I
splashed away awkwardly, but at last managed to make a straight, clean
cast. There was a slight pull, such as a trout gives in mid-stream under
water. I raised the point, and again the reel sang aloud and gleefully
as the salmon rushed down the stream farther and faster than the first.
It is a very pleasant thing to hook a salmon when you are all alone, as I
was then--alone with yourself and the Goddess of Fishing. This salmon,
just like the other, now came back, and instantly began the old tactics
of heavy plunging tugs. But I knew the gut was sound this time, and as I
fancied he had risen to the sniggler, I had no anxiety about the tackle
holding. One more plunge, and back came the line as before. He was off.
One could have sat down and gnawed the r