242 FISHING REMINISCENCES. 



fly out the wather wid his tail !" I was offended, and coiling my 

 line up carefully in my hand, proceeded along the stream, 

 stopping now and then to throw my fly with about as much success 

 as before. My ragged companion followed close at my heels, 

 offering numerous suggestions, of which I took no heed. At last, 

 after many fruitless and vain efforts, I began to reel in my line, 

 intending to give up the sport with the usual consolation of 

 fishermen — that there was something in the air, and the fish 

 would not bite. " If y'r honor 'd be after lettin me have a throw, 

 I think I'd be takin' a trout for y'r honor." 



To please the creature, and convince him and myself that my 

 bad success was not the result of unskilfulnesrs, I pettishly 

 handed him my rod ; he took it — reeled up the line — examined 

 the flies — and, looking in my face with a quaint expression of 

 ridicule on his countenance, which I shall never forget, exclaimed, 

 " where did y'r honor git these flies ?" Lifting myself up with a 

 look of disdain and offended dignity at the insult offered to my 

 flies, I answered — "from Kelly, 56, Sackville-street, Dublin." 

 ** Shure ! y'r honor, these flies were nivir intended to fish wid, 

 but they're mighty purty things to look at, at all ivints." 



He sat himself down on a stone, and drew forth from an old 

 greasy looking piece of shapeless leather, a variety of coloured 

 feathers, a piece of black silk, and the broken blade of an old 

 penknife. With the greatest impudence and ease, he commenced 

 stripping my neatly-made fly of all its beauty, preserving the 

 hook only — I was too much astonished at his coolness to impede 

 him. 



In the space of a few minutes he had finished; rising, he 

 replaced his leathern pouch in the slit lining of his tattered coat 

 (for pockets he had none), and, walking into the stream up to 

 his middle, twisting my line round his head, let it fall just above 

 an eddy formed by the projection of a stone out of the water. 

 Scarce had the fly dropped before the water splashed — the rod 

 bent — the reel creaked — and in less than three minutes a fine 

 trout, two pounds weight, was landed. All my contempt, all my 

 disdain, all my imaginary superiority of fishing lore, vanished. 

 I felt myself inferior to the poor tatterdemalion who had 

 officiated as my instructor. I begged to look at the fly ; it ap- 

 peared to me a shapeless mass of feathers, yet in less than one 

 hour I packed up the finest dish of trout I had ever seen ; and 

 having remunerated Paddy Shauglin and ordered three dozen of 

 his flies, I returned to my friend's house, determined not to 

 mention Paddy's assistance, but to boast of my skill and success 

 as many a brother angler has done before me. 



