eel. What had gone wrong? Why,
the brute had taken the old fly from the farmhouse and had snapped the
loop that attaches the gut. The little loop was still on the fragment of
minnow tackle which fastened it to the cast.

There was no more chance, for there were now no more flies, except a
small "cobbery," a sea-trout fly from the Sound of Mull. It was time for
us to go, with a heavy heart and a basket empty, except for two or three
miserable trout. The loss of those two salmon, whether big or little
fish, was not the whole misfortune. All the chances of the day were
gone, and seldom have salmon risen so freely. I had not been casting
long enough to smoke half a cigarette, when I hooked each of those fish.
They rose at flies which were the exact opposites of each other in size,
character, and colour. They were ready to rise at anything but the
sniggler. And I had nothing to offer them, absolutely nothing bigger
than a small red-spinner from the Test. On that day a fisher, not far
off, hooked nine salmon and landed four of them, in one pool, I never had
such a chance before; the heavy flood and high wind had made the salmon
as "silly" as perch. One might have caught half a dozen of the great
sturdy fellows, who make all trout, even sea-trout, seem despicable
minnows. Next day I fished again in the same water, with a friend. I
rose a fish, but did not hook it, and he landed a small one, five minutes
after we started, and we only had one other rise all the rest of the day.
Probably it was not dark and windy enough, but who can explain the
caprices of salmon? The only certain thing is, that carelessness always
brings misfortune; that if your tackle is weak fish will hook themselves
on days, and in parts of the water, where you expected nothing, and then
will go away with your fly and your casting-lines. Fortune never
forgives. He who is lazy, and takes no trouble because he expects no
fish, will always be meeting heart-breaking adventures. One should never
make a hopeless or careless cast; bad luck lies in wait for that kind of
performance. These are the experiences that embitter a man, as they
embittered Dean Swift, who, old and ill, neglected and in Irish exile,
still felt the pang of losing a great trout when he was a boy. What
pleasure is there in landscape and tradition when such accidents befall
you?

The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill,
In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet.

There is a fire of aut