90 ENNIS NA SHIA. 



Bread there was none. No one thinks of 

 bread when he may have the honest Irish 

 potato, roasted in its skin, and laughing in 

 its mealiness ; but butter, pepper, salt, and 

 other condiments, had been provided. The 

 Scholar was even proceeding to squeeze a 

 lemon over his share of roasted fish, when 

 the Parson snatched it from his hand, and 

 sternly bade him remember the whisky- 

 punch. 



Nor was there anything to disturb the 

 serenity of the hour, in the consciousness of 

 duties neglected — for it was no longer pos- 

 sible to deceive the very youngest and most 

 unwary of the genus Salmo. The lake was 

 as smooth as glass, with every tree on Grove 

 Island and every rock on the Bridge accu- 

 rately reflected, and looking like a real 

 glimpse of that fairy-land, with the inha- 

 bitants of which the Parson had just been 

 boasting his acquaintance. 



" Upon my word," said the Scholar, " it 

 looks by this light as if one could go over 

 that bridge in real earnest. ,, 



"That journey was attempted once,'' said 

 the Parson, " but few of those who tried it 

 lived to tell the tale." 



