332 ACCESSIBLE FIELD SPORTS. 



As I turn to the left, and lean upon an immense 

 show-case, standing detached and filled with attractive 

 lures, I find myself at the elbow of Michael, one of 

 the attaches of the premises. Here I must come to a 

 halt for a moment. I cannot without a good word pass 

 an old friend, and he one of the most expert fishermen 

 and most perfect fly- tiers I ever met. And more than 

 that, Michael comes from a neighbourhood I know 

 well. Until a year or two since, he lived near Fermoy, 

 and was a constant attendant on the officers of that 

 garrison. There is not a hole, a stream, a stretch of 

 dead-water within ten miles of that town, whether it be 

 on the Black water, Bride, Phuncheon or Araglen, that 

 he is not acquainted with. Before him, as he sits, are 

 ranged gut, hackles, golden and European pheasant 

 feathers, hooks, silk, and wax, for day after day, unless 

 he takes a holiday, his deft fingers are tying salmon or 

 trout flies. As soon as Michael sees me, he clears a 

 seat, and, at his request, I sit down and go to work, 

 just, as he says, to keep my hand in. Of course the old 

 country, and the neighbourhood of Fermoy, and the 

 gentry, are the staple of conversation, with an occa- 

 sional inquiry after old military acquaintances, whose 

 cicerone he was wont to be. 



When abroad, how pleasant it is to talk of home ! 

 how the warm blood of affection rushes to your heart 



