HAL.—No. The brightest Java dove’s hackle; kingfisher’s blue, and golden pheasant’s feathers, and the red feathers of the paroquet. There was a fish that rose and missed the fly—a sea trout. There, he has taken it, a fresh run fish, from his white belly and blue back. POIET.—How he springs out of the water! He must be 6 or 7lbs. HAL.—Under five, I am sure; he will soon be tired. He fights with less spirit: put the net under him. There, he is a fine fed sea trout, between 4 and 5lbs. But our intrusive brother angler (as I must call him) is coming down the river to take his evening cast. A stout Highlander, with a powerful tail,—or, as we should call it in England, suite. He is resolved not to be driven off, and I am not sure that the Laird himself could divert him from his purpose, except by a stronger tail, and force of arms; but I will try my eloquence upon him. “Sir, we hope you will excuse us for fishing in this pool, where it seems you were going to take your cast; but the Laird has desired us to stand in his shoes for a few days, and has given up angling while we are here; and as we come nearly a thousand miles for this amusement, we are sure you are too much of a gentleman to spoil our sport; and we will take care to supply your fish kettle while we are here, morning and evening, and we shall send you, as we hope, a salmon before night.” POIET.—He grumbles good sport to us, and is off with his tail: you have hit him in the right place. He is a pot fisher, I am sure, and somewhat hungry, and, provided he gets the salmon, does not care who catches it!