* * * * *
This, perhaps, would be the right way of beginning a story (not that it
is a story exactly), with the title forced on me by the name and nature
of the hero. But I do not think I could keep up the style without a lady-
collaborator; besides, I have used the term "weird" twice already, and
thus played away the trumps of modern picturesque diction. To return to
our Doctor: many a bad day have I had on Clearburn Loch, and never a good
one. But one thing draws me always to the loch when I have the luck to
be within twenty miles of it. There are trout in Clearburn! The Border
angler knows that the trout in his native waters is nearly as extinct as
the dodo. Many causes have combined to extirpate the shy and spirited
fish. First, there are too many anglers:
Twixt Holy Lee and Clovenfords,
A tentier bit ye canna hae,
sang that good old angler, now with God, Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart. But
between Holy Lee and Clovenfords you may see half a dozen rods on every
pool and stream. There goes that leviathan, the angler from London, who
has been beguiled hither by the artless "Guide" of Mr. Watson Lyall.
There fishes the farmer's lad, and the schoolmaster, and the wandering
weaver out of work or disinclined to work. In his rags, with his thin
face and red "goatee" beard, with his hazel wand and his home-made reel,
there is withal something kindly about this poor fellow, this true
sportsman.
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