I lose plenty, by striking furiously, after a series of short
rises, and breaking the gut, with which the fish swims away. As to
dressing a fly, one would sooner think of dressing a dinner. The result
of the fly-dressing would resemble a small blacking-brush, perhaps, but
nothing entomological.
Then why, a persevering reader may ask, do I fish? Well, it is stronger
than myself, the love of fishing; perhaps it is an inherited instinct,
without the inherited power. I may have had a fishing ancestor who
bequeathed to me the passion without the art. My vocation is fixed, and
I have fished to little purpose all my days. Not for salmon, an almost
fabulous and yet a stupid fish, which must be moved with a rod like a
weaver's beam. The trout is more delicate and dainty--not the sea-trout,
which any man, woman, or child can capture, but the yellow trout in clear
water.
A few rises are almost all I ask for: to catch more than half a dozen
fish does not fall to my lot twice a year. Of course, in a Sutherland
loch one man is as good as another, the expert no better than the duffer.
The fish will take, or they won't. If they won't, nobody can catch them;
if they will, nobody can miss them. It is as simple as trolling a minnow
from a boat in Loch Leven, probably the lowest possible form of angling.
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