REMINISCENCES OF THE LEWS. 105 



ing, till late on in tlie season, and then I, for 

 my part, don't much care for killing them. 



When Salmo has the smallest of heads buried 

 in his shoulders, with the most delicate mouth, 

 and, like a little fat pig, is as broad as he is 

 long, and as white as silver — good. But 

 reverse the picture, and let him have a long 

 head, with a big, bony mouth, as tough as 

 leather, and a red, ugly, shiny-looking body — a 

 Bios, senor, he is not my fish. He is little 

 sport to kill, and — I own to being a gourmet, 

 not a gourmand, in fishing — not nice to eat. 

 In this state, then, memory, not inspiration, 

 came to my aid. I bethought me of the Cos- 

 tello, in Galway, by whose pleasant side I had, 

 in former days, killed buckets-full of fish ; and, 

 in imitation of what I had there seen practised, 

 I dammed up Loch Dismal. Across the mouth 

 of this loch I erected a dam and sluice similar 

 to the common mill-dams of the country, taking 

 care, of course, not to shut the sluices so close 

 as to run the branch of the river dry. I thus 

 kept back water enough to create an artificial 

 spate, which I let go exactly in time to meet 

 the high spring tides tliat bring the fish up to 

 the rivers' mouths, which they take, wind and 

 water permitting. 



I found the experiment answer perfectly, 



