VI The Last Salmon before Close Time 443 



Your stream is a mere strea7n — a natural excava- 

 tion, a by-drain, spout, gutter, conduit, conveyer of 

 liquid manure to fat meadows, without personality or 

 soul. Our river is a river, — a real live thing, — -never 

 mentioned but with due respect, and in the feminine, 

 as ' she.' Ever charming, capricious, wayward 

 daughter of the hills ! Never as one wishes her to 

 be — never as one wants her to be ; knowing her 

 power, and knowing how all adore her ; having her 

 own way in spite of lord and loon. Rising like 

 anything on Saturday night ; perfect ' o' Sabbath,' 

 when no one may go near her ; and leaving her bed 

 as dry as the summit of Benmore before Monday 

 morning. The centre of all thought, the starting- 

 point of all conversation ; ' How is she ? ' the first 

 question each morning ; ' How will she be ? ' the 

 last question each night ; her * waxing ' and ' waning ' 

 are more studied than ever were moon changes by 

 Chaldaean star-gazers. On her depends everything. 

 If she be but in good order, who cares for the weather ? 

 — let it blow from the north, east, south, or west, or 

 straight down from the zenith in an Irish hurricane, 

 what care we ? Let her but be all right, and a fig 

 for the weather, though the jingling ice-films cut 

 your shins, or the sun bake your brains to an 

 omelette ! 



' Will she fish the day ? ' 



' I'm thinking she'll fush the day ' — what bliss ! 



' I'm jalousing she'll no fush the day ' — what 

 woe ! 



