You do not cast subtilely
over a fish which you know is there, but you swish, swish, all across the
current, with a strong reluctance to lift the line after each venture and
try another. The small of the back aches, and it is literally in the
sweat of your brow that you take your diversion. After all, there are
many blank days, when the salmon will look at no fly, or when you
encounter the Salmo irritans, who rises with every appearance of earnest
good-will, but never touches the hook, or, if he does touch it, runs out
a couple of yards of line, and vanishes for ever. What says the poet?
There's an accommodating fish,
In pool or stream, by rock or pot,
Who rises frequent as you wish,
At "Popham," "Parson," or "Jock Scott,"
Or almost any fly you've got
In all the furred and feathered clans.
You strike, but ah, you strike him not
He is the _Salmo irritans_!
It may be different in Norway or on the lower casts of the Tweed, as at
Floors, or Makerstoun; but higher up the country, in Scott's own country,
at Yair or Ashiesteil, there is often a terrible amount of fruitless work
to be done. And I doubt if, except in throwing a very long line, and
knowing the waters by old experience, there is very much skill in salmon-
fishing. It is all an affair of muscle and patience.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104