been trying to test the fact in the following manner:  At the same time that I deposited the spawn from which I made my other experiments, I also placed a basket of the same spawn, with equal care, in a pool of pure still water from the river Shin; and I soon found that, while that which was placed in the running pools was regularly progressing, every particle put into the still water was as visibly degenerating, so that, by the time the spawn in the running pools was alive, that in the still water was a rotten mass.  I must therefore say, from the above experiment, that rivers and running streams are the places fixed by nature for salmon to hatch their young.”  “I would also,” says our correspondent in a subsequent portion of his letter, “mention an additional experiment on another point.  It has been very generally asserted that intense frost injured the spawn of salmon; and in this opinion I was myself, in some measure, a believer.  But as nothing but truth will stand a proper test, I turned my attention to this subject also.  During the time of our severest frost, I took a basket of spawn, and placed it in a stream, where for three days it continued a frozen mass among the ice.  I then placed the basket again in the running pond from whence it had been taken, and carefully watched the effect.  I found that, although exposure to extreme cold had somewhat retarded the progressive growth, it had not in the slightest degree destroyed vitality.  I am therefore satisfied, that unless frost goes the length of drying up the spawning beds altogether, it does not harm the spawn, further than by retarding its growth during the actual continuance of excessive cold.  Thus fry are longer of hatching in a severe winter, than during an open one with little frost.”

When salmon first ascend the Tweed, they are brown upon the back, fat, and in high condition.  During the prevalence of cold weather they lie in deep and easy water, but as the season advances, they draw into the great rough streams, taking up their stations where they are likely to be least observed.  But there the wily wand of the practiced angler casts its gaudy lure, and “Kinmont Willie,” “Michael Scott,” or “The Lady of Mertoun,” (three killing flies,) darting deceitfully within their view, a sudden lounge is made—­sometimes scarcely visible by outward signs—­as often accompanied by a watery heave, and a flash like that of an aurora borealis,—­and downwards, upwards, onwards, a twenty-pounder darts away with lightning speed, while the rapid reel gives out that heart-stirring sound so musical to an angler’s ear, and than which none accords so well with the hoarser murmur of the brawling stream; till at last, after many an alternate hope and fear, the glittering prize turns up his silvery unresisting broadside, in meek submission to the merciless gaff.