204 WILD SPORTS OF THE WEST. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



The Colonel has girded up his loins for the mountains, 

 and, with the assistance of Mogh-a-dioul, a pony of 

 unhappy name, but good and enduring qualities, he 

 purposes to favour us with his company during our 

 sojourn at the cabin in the hills. While we traverse 

 the moors, the commander will infest the river ; or, 

 if the day be questionable, like honest Sancho, he will 

 patiently remain beside the flesh-pots. To him the 

 " meminisse juvabit " will apply. Thirty years ago, 

 with his lamented contemporary, our host's father, 

 the soldier, who was then a keen and accomplished 

 sportsman, spent many a happy hour upon the heath. 

 To his memory every dell and hillock is still green ; 

 and hence our evening details will recall to him those 

 happier recollections of youthful pastime, which, when 

 " life was new," he had once delighted to indulge in. 



The Colonel fishes well ! and I, at least my vanity 

 believes it, have improved marvellously — I really can 

 throw a line, and this the priest avers upon the word 

 of a churchman. I begin also to have what the Scotch 

 call a gloamin' of what forms the composition of a killing 

 fly. But my pride has sadly abated. Last night, during 

 a stormy controversy, touching the comparative merits 

 of PuU-garrow and Pull-buoy, upon which the host 

 and commander held opinions opposite as the antipodes, 

 to prove that I belonged to a " thinking people," I 

 raised my voice in favour of the yellow pool. Our host, 

 in dudgeon, having premised that one of us was blind, 

 and the other a botch, declared by the shade of Walton, 



