THE ANGLER IN IRELAND. 157 



blossom you may become even sentimental over it ; in July 

 the ripe crop may give joy to the farmer, and satisfaction to 

 Dorothy his wife. But the angler has another tale to 

 tell. It will be years before I shall reconcile myself 

 to Irish linen, so deadly is my hatred of the flax water 

 of which' I had painful experience. All Ulster anglers 

 curse the flax water if they curse nothing else, and if 

 they do not speak their condemnation they think it. The 

 cut flax is placed in water pits to soak, and the filthy 

 trenches being drained off when the soaking is complete, 

 the rivers become discoloured, the air is polluted with a 

 stench to which that of a tafiyard is otto of roses ; the fish are 

 sickened to death's door. Luckily they do not die under 

 the infliction, but they never move or feed, and the 

 experienced angler at once puts his rod on the rack. The 

 only fish that affects unconcern at the appearance of flax 

 water is the impudent little samlet, which bolts a fly as big 

 as its own head, and worries you incessantly at all times. 



The Main river is noted for heavy trout. When I crossed 

 the bridge on my way from the railway station my heart 

 gave a bound at what I saw. A lad was sauntering home- 

 wards dangling, with hi? fingers thrust into the gills, a trout 

 of some four or five pounds ; a young working man drifting 

 with the stream in a boat checked by a pickaxe slung over 

 the boW' was taking trout on an average at every third cast ; 

 further up on the meadow banks I saw the well balanced 

 figure of the trout fisher. Eager as the traditional war 

 horse is said to be for the battle, I hastened to the river side, 

 sniffing carnage as I ran. It was at the close of a day's 

 rain, the first that had fallen for a month, and the ri\'er, 

 though slightly coloured, was in superb order. It ran by in 



