with crooked pins, for minnows, or “baggies” as we called them, in the Ettrick.  If our parents hoped that we would bring home minnows for bait, they were disappointed.  The party was under the command of a nursery governess, and probably she was no descendant of the mother of us all, Dame Juliana Berners.  We did not catch any minnows, and I remember sitting to watch a bigger boy, who was angling in a shoal of them when a parr came into the shoal, and we had bright visions of alluring that monarch of the deep.  But the parr disdained our baits, and for months I dreamed of what it would have been to capture him, and often thought of him in church.  In a moment of profane confidence my younger brother once asked me:  “What do you do in sermon time?  I,” said he in a whisper—­“mind you don’t tell—­I tell stories to myself about catching trout.”  To which I added similar confession, for even so I drove the sermon by, and I have not “told”—­till now.

By this time we must have been introduced to trout.  Who forgets his first trout?  Mine, thanks to that unlucky star, was a double deception, or rather there were two kinds of deception.  A village carpenter very kindly made rods for us.  They were of unpainted wood, these first rods; they were in two pieces, with a real brass joint, and there was a ring at the end of the top joint, to which the line was knotted.  We were still in the age of Walton, who clearly knew nothing, except by hearsay, of a reel; he abandons the attempt to describe that machine as used by the salmon-fishers.  He thinks it must be seen to be understood.  With these innocent weapons, and with the gardener to bait our hooks, we were taken to the Yarrow, far up the stream, near Ladhope.  How well one remembers deserting the gardener, and already appreciating the joys of having no gillie nor attendant, of being “alone with ourselves and the goddess of fishing”!  I cast away as well as I could, and presently jerked a trout, a tiny one, high up in the air out of the water.  But he fell off the hook again, he dropped in with a little splash, and I rushed up to consult my tutor on his unsportsmanlike behaviour, and the disappointing, nay, heart-breaking, occurrence.  Was the trout not morally caught, was there no way of getting him to see this and behave accordingly?  The gardener feared there was none.  Meanwhile he sat on the bank and angled in a pool.  “Try my rod,” he said, and, as soon as I had taken hold of it, “pull up,” he cried, “pull up.”  I did “pull up,” and hauled my first troutling on shore.  But in my inmost heart I feared that he was not my trout at all, that the gardener had hooked him before he handed the rod to me.  Then we met my younger brother coming to us with quite a great fish, half a pound perhaps, which he had caught in a burn.  Then, for the first time, my soul knew the fierce passion of jealousy, the envy of the angler.  Almost for the last time, too; for, I know not why it is, and it proves me no true fisherman, I am not discontented by the successes of others.  If one cannot catch fish oneself, surely the next best thing is to see other people catch them.