A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



He was the heaviest fish, bar one, I have yet helped into a boat 

 on Lough Derg. He now displays his fine proportions in a 

 glass case with the label "8 lbs.," and the date underneath. 

 While Danny rested after this memorable achievement, I went 

 on dapping ; missed a fish or two and then hooked another. 

 At first I imagined he was a second champion, he fought so 

 gallantly ; but he was 3 lb. lighter than the great fish when 

 we got him in. Then Danny, fired by my example, brought 

 home a fine 4-pounder ; and then the breeze died away. 

 So we made leisurely for the shore ; landed, laid out our prizes 

 in a shady place, and covered them with cool rushes. Next 

 we chose a soft spot among the aromatic juniper bushes, 

 carpeted with long yellow moss, and yielded ourselves to the 

 charm of the scene, while the sunbeams danced across the 

 lake to the music of the curlews and the ringdoves, and the 

 drone of myriads of insect wings. 



By and by Danny, the energetic, proposed boiling the kettle, 

 an invitation to which I readily responded, and we made tea. 

 That much accomplished, Danny suggested that we had done 

 well. I agreed. He further opined that we might do better. 

 I had no valid objection to urge, though, to tell the truth, I 

 was loth to exchange my soft cushions of yellow moss for the 

 hard seats of the boat. But, as usual, Danny had his way, 

 and off we paddled again. And eventually the breeze came up, 

 and we let out our lines. Shortly afterwards Danny missed 

 a fish, and I missed another. Then Danny missed a third, 

 whereupon he began to grumble, and to say unkind things 

 about my fish-hooks ; but almost immediately there was a 

 splash about my fly, and I had a fish on. Danny cheered up, 



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