galleries, as many men and most women do already. We are fortunate who
inherit the older, not "the new spirit"--we who, skilled or unskilled,
follow in the steps of our father, Izaak, by streams less clear, indeed,
and in meadows less fragrant, than his. Still, they are meadows and
streams, not wholly dispeopled yet of birds and trout; nor can any defect
of art, nor certainty of laborious disappointment, keep us from the
waterside when April comes.

Next to being an expert, it is well to be a contented duffer: a man who
would fish if he could, and who will pleasure himself by flicking off his
flies, and dreaming of impossible trout, and smoking among the sedges
Hope's enchanted cigarettes. Next time we shall be more skilled, more
fortunate. Next time! "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow." Grey
hairs come, and stiff limbs, and shortened sight; but the spring is green
and hope is fresh for all the changes in the world and in ourselves. We
can tell a hawk from a hand-saw, a March Brown from a Blue Dun; and if
our success be as poor as ever, our fancy can dream as well as ever of
better things and more fortunate chances. For fishing is like life; and
in the art of living, too, there are duffers, though they seldom give us
their confessions. Yet even they are kept alive, like the incompetent
angler, by this undying hope: they will be more careful, more skilful,
more lucky next time. The gleaming untravelled future, the bright
untried waters, allure us from day to day, from pool to pool, till, like
the veteran on Coquet side, we "try a farewell throw," or, like Stoddart,
look our last on Tweed.




A BORDER BOYHOOD