212 WILD LIFE AND THE CAMERA 



true son of Ireland, good-tempered, and of wit full 

 to overflowing ; and, what was still more to the 

 point, he knew a good deal about trout fishing. 

 Very large flies, he declared, were necessary for the 

 early fishing No. 1 salmon, no less. I had with me 

 a book of salmon flies, but having practically never 

 used anything larger than No. 6, I had very few of 

 the large sizes and, frankly, I did not have much 

 faith in them for trout. It had nearly always been 

 my experience that small flies proved better than 

 large ones. However, to avoid the possibility of 

 having the guide blame our tackle if we failed to 

 catch the fish, I searched the town and procured 

 some very badly-faded silver doctors and Wilkin- 

 sons of the desired size. With our outfit in a light 

 wagon and ourselves in a carriage we started on 

 a twelve-mile drive to a river near which John, 

 the guide, told us that his married daughter lived, 

 and there we could put up for a couple of days 

 while we tried the fishing. 



We found everything thoroughly to our satis- 

 faction a nice clean house on a very tidy farm, 

 and a promising river within a stone's throw. After 

 a bite of lunch we assembled the rods and were 

 poled up the river to a likely-looking pool, where 

 we disembarked. Scarcely had I made half a dozen 

 casts with the No. 1 Wilkinson, at the head of the 

 pool, than a huge surge where the fly had just 

 touched the water set my heart throbbing. Almost 

 before I realised what had happened the line 

 tightened with that magnetic thrill which makes 

 the blood of a fisherman dance in his veins. There 

 was scarcely need to strike, but I did so, and was 



