BY THE KIVER. 269 



to glimmer in the windows of the peaceable 

 dwelling. We have put up moth flies, and are 

 fishing in the shallows, to which the heavy 

 trout come at eventide. The air is warm, 

 and through the song of the stream I can 

 distinctly hear the deep, amorous kind of suck 

 that Sam makes at his dhudeen, as he watches 

 me, rodless, but armed with the landing-net. 

 A ghostly object sails swiftly across our 

 faces. 



" That's an owl, sir ; the blayguard is lookin' 

 for his supper." 



" And quite right, too, Sam ; why shouldn't 

 he?" 



" I never like to meet the like of 'em ; they 

 say 'tisn't lucky." 

 "Why?" 



" Well, sir, I suppose it stands to rayson, you 

 see, that bein' out all night they see things 

 that aren't good." ("Things that aren't 

 good" an Irish periphrase for spectres or 

 elves. 



" Surely, Sam, you are not fool enough to 

 believe in fairies or banshees ?" 



" Be gor, then, I am, sir ; and by your lave 



