attempted to ladle the trout out with the short net; but he broke the gut, and went off.  A landing-net is a tedious thing to carry, so is a creel, and a creel is, to me, a superfluity.  There is never anything to put in it.  If I do catch a trout, I lay him under a big stone, cover him with leaves, and never find him again.  I often break my top joint; so, as I never carry string, I splice it with a bit of the line, which I bite off, for I really cannot be troubled with scissors and I always lose my knife.  When a phantom minnow sticks in my clothes, I snap the gut off, and put on another, so that when I reach home I look as if a shoal of fierce minnows had attacked me and hung on like leeches.  When a boy, I was—­once or twice—­a bait-fisher, but I never carried worms in box or bag.  I found them under big stones, or in the fields, wherever I had the luck.  I never tie nor otherwise fasten the joints of my rod; they often slip out of the sockets and splash into the water.  Mr. Hardy, however, has invented a joint-fastening which never slips.  On the other hand, by letting the joint rust, you may find it difficult to take down your rod.  When I see a trout rising, I always cast so as to get hung up, and I frighten him as I disengage my hook.  I invariably fall in and get half-drowned when I wade, there being an insufficiency of nails in the soles of my brogues.  My waders let in water, too, and when I go out to fish I usually leave either my reel, or my flies, or my rod, at home.  Perhaps no other man’s average of lost flies in proportion to taken trout was ever so great as mine.  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.  My ambition is as great as my skill is feeble; to capture big trout with the dry fly in the Test, that would content me, and nothing under that.  But I can’t see the natural fly on the water; I cannot see my own fly,