THE SALMON. 109 



that season. It was because I was bound to leave 

 the same evening that I went out ; a more hopeless 

 attempt was never made. The sun was bright, 

 there was " no wind in the air," it was a' breathless 

 calm ; the heavy rain of the previous night had 

 swollen the river, and it was at the time coming 

 down in a dark flood, level, and sometimes over 

 the banks. However, as it was my last day, I was 

 determined to throw a fly, though but for the 

 pleasure of throwing it. Walking up to the 

 Greensod Pool, I commenced operations. My fly 

 was an Inch-y-quin of the largest size, as is fitting 

 in heavy waters, and there are few, if any, more 

 killing flies on the Western Irish waters. Kelly, of 

 Dublin, ties it admirably, and old Mr Lees, of sport- 

 ing and post-office celebrity, never fished with any 

 other. " Commencing," as both Irish and Scotch 

 fishermen term it, at the tail of the rapid which 

 feeds the pool, I threw a long line well over. At 

 the first cast there was a palpable break in the 

 water. Could it be a fish ? In such a state of 

 things I could not believe it possible ; it must have 

 been a piece of floating bog-wood, or a mass of 

 turf torn from the bank, and hurried down the 

 boiling stream ! Again I threw, and the fly floated 

 with the stream a few feet above the spot where 

 the break, if break it was, had been. There was 



