aversion to angling with worm.  If the gardener, or a pretty girl-cousin of the mature age of fourteen, would put the worm on, I did not “much mind” fishing with it.  Dost thou remember, fair lady of the ringlets?  Still, I never liked bait-fishing, and these mine allies were not always at hand.  We used, indeed, to have great days with perch at Faldonside, on the land which Sir Walter Scott was always so anxious to buy from Mr. Nichol Milne.  Almost the last entry in his diary, at Naples, breathes this unutterable hope.  He had deluded himself into believing that his debts were paid, and that he could soon “speak a word to young Nichol Milne.”  The word, of course, was never spoken, and the unsupplanted laird used to let us fish for his perch to our hearts’ desire.  Never was there such slaughter.  The corks which we used as floats were perpetually tipping, bobbing, and disappearing, and then the red-finned perch would fly out on to dry land.  Here I once saw two corks go down, two anglers haul up, and one perch, attached to both hooks, descend on the grassy bank.  My brother and I filled two baskets once, and strung dozens of other perch on a stick.

But this was not legitimate business.  Not till we came to fly-fishing were we really entered at the sport, and this initiation took place, as it chanced, beside the very stream where I was first shown a trout.  It is a charming piece of water, amber-coloured and clear, flowing from the Morvern hills under the limes of an ancient avenue—trees that have long survived the house to which, of old, the road must have led.  Our gillie put on for us big bright sea-trout flies—nobody fishes there for yellow trout; but, in our inexperience, small “brownies” were all we caught.  Probably we were only taken to streams and shallows where we could not interfere with mature sportsmen.  At all events, it was demonstrated to us that we could actually catch fish with fly, and since then I have scarcely touched a worm, except as a boy, in burns.  In these early days we had no notion of playing a trout.  If there was a bite, we put our strength into an answering tug, and, if nothing gave way, the trout flew over our heads, perhaps up into a tree, perhaps over into a branch of the stream behind us.  Quite a large trout will yield to this artless method, if the rod be sturdy—none of your glued-up cane-affairs.  I remember hooking a trout which, not answering to the first haul, ran right across the stream and made for a hole in the opposite bank.  But the second lift proved successful and he landed on my side of the water.  He had a great minnow in his throat, and must have been a particularly greedy animal.  Of course, on this system there were many breakages, and the method was abandoned as we lived into our teens, and began to wade and to understand something about fly-fishing.

It was worth while to be a boy then in the south of Scotland, and to fish the waters haunted by old legends, musical with old songs, and renowned in the sporting essays of Christopher North and Stoddart.  Even then, thirty long years ago, the old stagers used to tell us that “the waiter was owr sair fished,” and they grumbled about the system of draining the land, which makes a river a roaring torrent in floods, and a bed of grey stones with a few clear pools and shallows, during the rest of the year.  In times before the hills were drained, before the manufacturing towns were so populous, before pollution, netting, dynamiting, poisoning, sniggling, and the enormous increase of fair and unfair fishing, the border must have been the angler’s paradise.  Still, it was not bad when we were boys.  We had Ettrick within a mile of us, and a finer natural trout-stream there is not in Scotland, though now the water only holds a sadly persecuted remnant.  There was one long pool behind Lindean, flowing beneath a high wooded bank, where the trout literally seemed never to cease rising at the flies that dropped from the pendant boughs.  Unluckily the water flowed out of the pool in a thin broad stream, directly it right angles to the pool itself.  Thus the angler had, so to speak, the whole of lower Ettrick at his back when he waded: it was a long way up stream to the bank, and, as we never used landing-nets then, we naturally lost a great many trout in trying to unhook them in mid water.  They only averaged as a rule from three to two to the pound, but they were strong and lively.  In this pool there was a large tawny, table-shaped stone, over which the current broke.  Out of the eddy behind this stone, one of my brothers one day caught three trout weighing over seven pounds, a feat which nowadays sounds quite incredible.  As soon as the desirable eddy was empty, another trout, a trifle smaller than the former, seems to have occupied it.  The next mile and a half, from Lindean to the junction with Tweed, was remarkable for excellent sport.  In the last pool of Ettrick, the water flowed by a steep bank, and, if you cast almost on to the further side, you were perfectly safe to get fish, even when the river was very low.  The flies used, three on a cast, were small and dusky, hare’s ear and woodcock wing, black palmers, or, as Stoddart sings,

Wee dour looking huiks are the thing,
Mouse body and laverock wing.

Next to Ettrick came Tweed: the former river joins the latter at the bend of a long stretch of water, half stream, half pool, in which angling was always good.  In late September there were sea-trout, which, for some reason, rose to the fly much more freely than sea-trout do now in the upper Tweed.  I particularly remember hooking one just under the railway bridge.  He was a two-pounder, and practised the usual sea-trout tactics of springing into the air like a rocket.  There was a knot on my line, of course, and I was obliged to hold him hard.  When he had been dragged up on the shingle, the line parted, broken in twain at the knot; but it had lasted just long enough, during three exciting minutes.  This accident of a knot on the line has only once befallen me since, with the strongest loch-trout I ever encountered.  It was on Branxholme Loch, where the trout run to a great size, but usually refuse the fly.  I was alone in a boat on a windy day; the trout soon ran out the line to the knot, and then there was nothing for it but to lower the top almost to the water’s edge, and hold on in hope.  Presently the boat drifted ashore, and I landed him—better luck than I deserved.  People who only know the trout of the Test and other chalk streams, cannot imagine how much stronger are the fish of the swift Scottish streams and dark Scottish lochs.  They’re worse fed, but they are infinitely more powerful and active; it is all the difference between an alderman and a clansman.

Tweed, at this time, was full of trout, but even then they were not easy to catch.  One difficulty lay in the nature of the wading.  There is a pool near Ashiesteil and Gleddis Weil which illustrated this.  Here Scott and Hogg were once upset from a boat while “burning the water”—spearing salmon by torchlight.  Herein, too, as Scott mentions in his Diary, he once caught two trout at one cast.  The pool is long, is paved with small gravel, and allures you to wade on and on.  But the water gradually deepens as you go forward, and the pool ends in a deep pot under each bank.  Then to recover your ground becomes by no means easy, especially if the water is heavy.  You get half-drowned, or drowned altogether, before you discover your danger.  Many of the pools have this peculiarity, and in many, one step made rashly lets you into a very uncomfortable and perilous place.  Therefore expeditions to Tweedside were apt to end in a ducking.  It was often hard to reach the water where trout were rising, and the rise was always capricious.  There might not be a stir on the water for hours, and suddenly it would be all boiling with heads and tails for twenty minutes, after which nothing was to be done.  To miss