"Young man, do ye no ken it's the Sawbath Day?"

I recognised the reproof of the righteous, an excellent oil which doth
not break the head, and took it gratefully at the old man's hands. For
did it not prove that he regarded me as a man and a brother, a creature
capable of being civilised and saved?

It was in the gray town of Dingwall that I had this bit of
pleasant correction, as I was on the way to a fishing tramp through
Sutherlandshire. This northwest corner of Great Britain is the best
place in the whole island for a modest and impecunious angler. There
are, or there were a few years ago, wild lochs and streams which are
still practically free, and a man who is content with small things can
pick up some very pretty sport from the highland inns, and make a good
basket of memorable experiences every week.

The inn at Lairg, overlooking the narrow waters of Loch Shin, was
embowered in honeysuckles, and full of creature comfort. But there were
too many other men with rods there to suit my taste. "The feesh in this
loch," said the boatman, "iss not so numerous ass the feeshermen, but
more wise. There iss not one of them that hass not felt the hook, and
they know ferry well what side of the fly has the forkit tail."

At Altnaharra, in the shadow of Ben Clebrig, there was a cozy little
house with good fare, and abundant trout-fishing in Loch Naver and Loch
Meadie. It was there that I fell in with a wandering pearl-peddler who
gathered his wares from the mussels in the moorland streams. They were
not of the finest quality, these Scotch pearls, but they had pretty,
changeable colours of pink and blue upon them, like the iridescent light