SALMON-FISHING.


Salmon-fishing for this season is over, and, in spite of the fresh and
open weather, most anglers will feel that the time has come to close the
fly-book, to wind up the reel, and to consign the rod to its winter
quarters. Salmon-fishing ceases to be very enjoyable when the _snaw
broo_, or melted snow from the hilltops, begins to mix with the brown
waters of Tweed or Tay; when the fallen leaves hamper the hook; and when
the fish are becoming sluggish, black, and the reverse of comely. Now
the season of retrospect commences, the time of the pleasures of memory,
and the delights of talking shop dear to anglers Most sporting talk is
dull to every one but the votaries of the particular amusement. Few
things can be drearier to the outsider than the conversation of
cricketers, unless it be the recondite lore which whist-players bring
forth from the depths of their extraordinary memories. But angling talk
has a variety, recounts an amount of incident and adventure, and wakens a
feeling of free air in a way with which the records of no other sport,
except perhaps deer-stalking, can compete. The salmon is, beyond all
rivalry, the strongest and most beautiful, and most cautious and artful,
of fresh-water fishes. To capture him is not a task for slack muscles or
an uncertain eye. There is even a slight amount of personal risk in the
sport. The fisher must often wade till the water reaches above the waist
in cold and rushing streams, where his feet are apt to slip on the smooth
stones or trip on the rough rocks beneath him. When the salmon takes the
fly, there is no time for picking steps. The line rushes out so swiftly
as to cut the fingers if it touches them, and then is the moment when the
angler must follow the fish at the top of his speed. To stand still, or