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a slack line. The angler who throws straight hits his fish just as 

 often as the straight shooter hits his birds. 



I never could throw a long line, so I contented myself wdth a short 

 one, and when I could not cover a pool with a line thrown straight I 

 left it alone rather than try to do so with a line bellied, and that is, I 

 think, w^hat all bad fishermen should do. 



I am also sceptical about the necessity of having some scores of 

 different pattern flies in one's book, for the simple reason that about 

 the very best fisherman I ever met used only four different sorts during 

 the whole season, and he seldom went out without landing a lot. He 

 always used the finest of casting lines, and had the flies tied on to even 

 finer gut. Under his advice I always used the same patterns, and with 

 them I killed trout in most months of the season, w^hether I tried brooks, 

 rivers, or lakes, and I did so in England, Scotland, and Ireland. The 

 flies were Steward's pattern of hare's ear, dun, black, and grey spiders. 

 I had them very small, medium-sized, and large for lake and evening 

 fishing, and I always used the finest of tackle. Whenever there was the 

 least deviation from the pattern, there was a corresponding diminution 

 in the quantity of fish I caught. Men holding opinions that fish in 

 certain rivers will take only certain flies, will laugh to scorn my notion 

 of trout having universal taste. They may do so and welcome. 



I never could endure fishing out of a boat either on sea or lake, 

 neither could I see much fun in bait-fishing even for trout, while that 

 for roach, perch, or eels I considered fit only for boys. I also looked 

 upon the salmon-fishing off Galway Quay as a very one-horse affair, and 

 fit only for Cockneys. Salmon- fishing, however, I know absolutely 

 nothing about. 



I often wished I was an expert fly-fisherman, for next to hunting and 

 shooting there was no sport I liked better than playing a lively pound 

 trout in his native mountain stream with a light rod and fine tackle, and 

 where skill, time, and patience were required to land the beauty. You 

 will see fellows take enjoyment in skull-dragging them out without a 

 minute's play, using great heavy rods and tackle, but I never saw any 

 fun in that sort of fishing. 



Long ago I went for some years with my very dear, but now, alas 1 

 dead, friend, George Baker, for short trips to the Westmeath Lakes, 

 Galway, and the Shannon. We generally had good sport, but I did 

 not care much for dapping out of a boat on Belvidere, bobbing with 

 a shrimp off Galway Quay, or cross-lining on Lough Derg. What I 

 liked was wild mountain river-fishing, where hard exercise and 

 charming scenery would be combined with sport; but the latter should 

 be good, for I never had much patience in anything, and whipping away 

 for hours without getting a rise I considered horribly monotonous. 



I had good fishing often, but only once to perfection, and that was 

 many years ago when I was a boy. Accompanied by a companion, 

 we hired a car in Cork to take us on a fishing excursion to Killarney, 

 through Googawnbarragh, Inchageela, Glengariff, and Kenmare. 



