Was it in the Eden that Thomson, author of "The Seasons," learned to fish? Or was it in Jed? He was born at Ednam,--Edenham,--a village on the Eden, and he may have loved to revisit it in later years, and to catch the lusty speckled trout for which the stream has always been famous. Probably, however, he learned to throw a fly on Jed, for he passed his boyhood at Southdean--to which parish his father had been transferred as Minister long ere the son was fit to wield a rod--and he himself got his early education at Jedburgh. In Jed or in Eden, then, and perhaps in Teviot and Ale--he was much at Ancrum--he learned the art; and not unskilled in it indeed must he have been. Where in all literature can one find a description of trout-fishing so perfect as the following? "Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly; And, as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game. Strait as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap, There fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook; Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank And to the shelving shore slow dragging some With various hand proportion'd to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream {034} The speckled captive throw; but, should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly, And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death With sullen plunge: at once he darts along, Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line, Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode, And (lies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following how, Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,