Great Britain -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction; Historical fiction
The year had been dry and sultry; and this day was warmer than any I
remembered. The grass in the meadow was browned and crackling; all the
foxgloves hung their bells with weariness; and the waters were shrunken
in their beds. The mill-lade, which drives Manor Mill, had not a drop
in it, and the small trout were gasping in the shallow pool, which in
our usual weather was five feet deep. The cattle were _stertling_, as
we called it in the countryside; that is, the sun was burning their
backs, and, rushing with tails erect, they sought coolness from end to
end of the field. Tweed was very low and clear. Small hope, I thought,
for my fishing; I might as well have stayed with Master Porter and been
thrashed, for I will have to stay out all day and go supperless at
night.
I took my way up the river past the green slopes of Haswellsykes to the
wood of Dawyck, for I knew well that there, if anywhere, the fish would
take in the shady, black pools. The place was four weary miles off, and
the day was growing hotter with each passing hour; so I stripped my coat
and hid it in a hole among whins and stones. When I come home again, I
said, I will recover it. Another half mile, and I had off my shoes and
stockings and concealed them in a like place; so soon I plodded along
with no other clothes on my body than shirt and ragged breeches.
In time I came to the great forest which stretches up Tweed nigh to
Drummelzier, the greatest wood in our parts, unless it be Glentress, on
the east side of Peebles. The trees were hazels and birches in the
main, with a few rowans, and on the slopes of the hill a congregation of
desolate pines. Nearer the house of Dawyck were beeches and oaks and
the deeper shade, and it was thither I went. The top of my rod struck
against the boughs, and I had some labour in steering a safe course
between the Scylla of the trees and the Charybdis of the long brackens;
for the rod was in two parts spliced together, and as I had little skill
in splicing, Davie had done the thing for me before I started. Twice I
roused a cock of the woods, which went screaming through the shadow.
Herons from the great heronry at the other end were standing in nigh
every pool, for the hot weather was a godsend to them, and the trout
fared ill when the long thief-like bills flashed through the clear
water. Now and then a shy deer leaped from the ground and sped up the
hill. The desire of the chase was hot upon me when, after an hour’s
rough scramble, I came to the spot where I hoped for fish.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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