654 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Nov. 23, 1912 
GLEN-OF-THE-DOWNS. 
to two or three dozen fish to each rod per day, 
and it is a very rare experience for any fisher¬ 
man to go home with an empty basket. 
When the trout are in good rising humor 
they take almost any small fly, but the following 
are usually killers: (1) Claret body, silver tin¬ 
sel ribs, snipe’s wing feather for wings and a 
mallard’s coat for jib. (2) Hare’s ear body, 
black hackle and starling’s wing with ribs of 
gold tinsel. (3) Brown mohair body, jib of 
partridge’s tail, red hackle and landrail’s wing. 
(4) Prussian blue body, black rooster’s hackle, 
silver tinsel ribs. (5) Body, brown mohair, jib, 
should be in different shades to suit the changes 
in the atmosphere and in the water, such as a 
bright or a dark day, a clear or muddy water, 
etc. A bright fly being better for muduy water 
and a dark fly for clear water. For the latter 
a black midge is often a very good killer. 
It is rather remarkable that several attempts 
have been made from time to time by local gen¬ 
tlemen to introduce other breeds of trout into 
Lough Dan, such as the Loch Leven (Scotch) 
and rainbow trout, but never with success. Gen¬ 
erally after a few months the newcomers have 
disappeared, leaving the native trout in undis¬ 
puted possession of the lake, where they still 
continue their good reputation for affording 
plenty of sport to the lovers of the gentle art 
of angling. 
Lough Dan is always a great attraction for 
the tourist and picnic party out for a day in 
the country. 
In conclusion I would say that while I hope 
the foregoing brief sketch may serve to direct 
attention to a region of rare beauty and interest, 
no mere pen-and-ink description can do it jus¬ 
tice ; it must be seen to be adequately appreci¬ 
ated. The tourist should make his base of oper¬ 
ation in Bray, where he can procure every fa¬ 
cility for traveling over the whole of the County 
Wicklow. 
Back Again Home. 
BY ROBERT PAGE HINCOLN. 
Deep in the hollows, the green grassy hollows, 
In the dim little land I have known, 
There’s an old empty cottage, a weary old cottage. 
Where my heart and my joy all have flown. 
There’s a sunken old cottage, a dreary old cottage. 
On the banks of the old, old stream; 
And the last light of day marks a traveler’s way 
In the haunt of his last fond dream. 
Back again home to the old, old home, 
When the calm evening shadows do blend, 
When the birds in their covert are whispering love 
And the spirit cows homewardly wend. 
Back again home, mother, call from the door; 
Call to me, mother, I’m coming again; 
Barefooted lad from the haunt of the past, 
And the weary old tramp of pain. 
Treading once more, the path now is hidden 
Under the tall grasses swayed to and fro; 
Treading it softly for fear there present them 
Ghosts of the loved once now hidden below. 
Sweet little cottage home, are you still dreaming? 
See, I am back again, troubled no more; 
What though we aged, be sunken and weary. 
There shall be joy again still as of yore. 
Lift up your mossed roof, smile, little cottage, 
Bring once again to me thoughts of my youth; 
Weary, worn beggar, thou dawn in thy splendor, 
Rise like a castle and tide me the truth. 
Here is the mossed well, old now and shattered; 
Oft in my cheery youth here have I stood; 
Now I am standing here bent-backed and aged, 
Gnarled as the mighty oak deep in the wood. 
O can it be. Life, so quick the journey. 
Sped on its course has far left me behind? 
Where are the fallen years, where is the gay lad, 
Search where I will, not a vestige I find. 
Here are the orchard trees, ancient and hoary. 
Sunshine no longer ripens fruit on that crest; 
Youth ripens dreams nevermore in my bosom, 
For I am old now and crying for rest. 
Here in Life’s morning glow, sunshiny spirit, 
Heard I the birds gayly calling with love; 
And brightly rose in me thoughts of a city, 
Haven, it seemed, of a fair treasure trove. 
Oh how we learn this the bitter taught lesson, 
We who take wings and leave home evermore; 
O how we suffer when yearning for comfort— 
Naught in a breast lives but memory sore. 
There is nobody home in the cottage this even, 
Gay will a pleasantry nevermore there resound; 
Mother’s fond lullaby is stilled to a memory, 
There in the graveyard her mute little mound. 
Scarce can I think that the past is a vision, 
Cottage home, why seem you bowed low in grief? 
See I am home again, a traveler burdened, 
And I would rest a while calm in belief! 
Back again home, mother. See, I am withered! 
Cold as November blasts sweeping the plain; 
Winter is coming soon, and I will join thee, 
Soon will there be not a hint of my pain. 
So is the journey dene, mother I wait thee, 
Take me this eventide close to thy breast; 
For I am home, mother, home from my journey, 
Lull me to sleep, mother — lull me to rest! 
THE DARGLE BRIDGE. 
