12 



ON THE ATLANTIC COAST. 



I am the guest of a local magnate, on the banks of an 

 Irish salmon river. Let us call our host the General, and 

 let us, also, congratulate ourselves that a pressing engage- 

 ment prevents him fishing this morning. "We will try his 

 favourite pool, which is the most likely place to yield a 

 salmon in the present low state of the water. A small fly, 

 with gold tinsel body, wings and tail of golden pheasant 

 toppings and tippets, and legs of blue chatterer — boasting 

 the appropriate nrane of Lord Randolph — such a fly should 

 lure one of those sulky beggars to destruction if anj-thing 

 will ; so, let us start with Handy. Deftly the glittering- 

 morsel goes thirty yards across the pool, and falls straight 

 and true, with a ti"'ht line, oiving; little chance of a miss, 

 should " Salmo salar " accept the invitation to lunch. A 

 shelving bank, which shallows the tail end of the pool, is 

 the usual " catch," but the fly passes the magic spot, and 

 tlie cast is repeated with varying lengths of line until 

 presently there is a boil in the water, a huge blue back 

 sliows itself, followed by a nine-inch tail, and the screaming 

 winch proclaims the fact that the fight has begun. With 

 a might}^ rush, the big fish takes off line at greased light- 

 ning speed, and, making for some shallows, wallows over 

 them into deep water beyond, followed by the angler, 

 slipping and stumbling over boulders, with an utter dis- 

 regard of broken shins. Panting, and almost exhausted, 

 the quarry is overtaken, but he declines to discuss the 

 matter at such close quarters, and once more there is a 

 furious rush up stream, with more obstacle racing, flounder- 

 ing and blundering, whilst Paddy yells, "Hould 'im up, 

 yer honer ! hould 'im up ! or by the holy Saints he'll cut ye 

 on the shallers !" He does nothing of the kind, but. 



