THE ANGLER IN IRELAND. 159 



and for salmon I tried heart and hand. About two miles- 

 up the river the Fates whispered me good omens. The 

 stream, running sharply across from a pretty coppice, swept 

 in a long, deep, semi-circular pool under a steep rock-shelved 

 bank, and feathered away in a foamy tail. A cloud went 

 across the sun, the wind ruffled the dark water, and the 

 favourite claret fly dropped down upon the precise square 

 inch that would bear it in natural motion into the current. 



" Let the proud salmon gorge the feather'd hook, 

 Then strike, and tljen you have hira — He will wince ; 

 Spin out your line that it will whistle from you 

 Some twenty yards or so, yet you shall have him. 

 Marry ! you must have patience — the stout rock 

 Which is his trust hath edges something sharp ; 

 And the deep pool hath ooze and sludge enough. 

 To mar your fishing — 'less you are more careful." 



Doubtless ! but we are careful, though twice twenty yards 

 are run out in one jubilant fanfare from the click reel before 

 there is time to think of patience, or sharp edges, or any- 

 thing else but the pleasant tingling which the taut line has 

 communicated to every nerve. The gallant fish evidently 

 loves the shade, for he has shot up to the plantation's edge, 

 cleaving the water as he took the narrowest part of the 

 channel. He is partial to gymnastic exercises too, for into 

 the air he purls, sending one's heart into one's mouth for 

 fear. But he is too well hooked, and being closely followed 

 he returns back again to the pool, to yield up the ghost 

 perhaps in sight of a comrade who may by his fate take a 

 salutary warning. I don't say an eight-pound fish was much 

 to brag about, but with only an ordinary trout rod and a 

 landing net, which you must perforce use yourself, it did 

 not come amiss to the captor. 



