A few weeks ago I tried to give some good advice to young anglers in
regard to trout fishing with hook and line. Now I am going to tell them
of one or two curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced by
fishermen on the other side of the Atlantic.
The trout in the rivers of Great Britain, as a general thing, attain a
larger size than ours do. Occasionally, however, exceptions may be made
to this rule, as, for instance, in the Rangeley Lakes, in the State of
Maine, where trout are taken that are as large as any in the finest
streams of England or Ireland.
The brook trout of the latter countries is usually from ten to fourteen
inches in length, but in certain streams it is occasionally found of a
much larger size, weighing in some instances seven or eight pounds. In
color it is yellowish-brown above, shading off to yellow on the sides,
the spots on the back being reddish-brown, while those on the sides are
bright red.
In certain wild parts of Ireland there is fine trout fishing, four and
five pound fish being frequently caught. There are two methods of
catching them practiced by the inhabitants--tickling and snaring. The
snare is a simple noose made of gray horse-hair, plaited, and of the
strength of perhaps a dozen hairs. This snare is fastened to the end of
a ten-foot pole, slender and springy, and the device is complete. Its
use requires great training of the hand, and even more of the eye. When
I was a boy I was in the County Tipperary, where so many tall Irishmen
come from, where some of the people still speak Gaelic, and where the
trout in the streams are free and frisky. The rivers of Tipperary flow
into the Shannon and the Suir, and the Shannon is a noble river, and an
immense one when you consider how small the accommodations of the
country are.
To snare a trout, you pick out the clear shallows where the water flows
softly over the yellow gravel. You approach the spot with great caution,
and with such slow and easy movement that the fish is not alarmed, or if
he does dart off to deeper water or some dark lurking-place, presently
returns, revealing himself by his flickering shadow, that seems even
more real than himself. Then, slow as the minute-hand of a clock,
descends the rod, and the horse-hair noose sinks under the surface. The
trout's nose points against the current, and down toward him drifts the
unseen loop of horse-hair. Unfailing must be the judgment of the
distance, and certain the estimate of the depth, and as it glides over
his shoulders a swift stroke sends him flying over your head into the
grass behind you. It is incredible how difficult this method of fishing
is, what great craft it needs, what subtlety of approach, and what fine
discernment in the execution. I have seen a Tipperary woman so skillful
that she could beat all comers in the number of trout she would take in
a day's fishing. It was a fine sight to see her on the bank, rigid as a
statue, with uncovered head crowned with jet-black hair, her bare feet
planted in the sod, and not a trace of movement to be seen until up went
her rod, and a fine flashing trout, as heavy perhaps as her plaited
noose would bear, went kicking through the air.
But tickling the trout is the more curious method, and is a practice
that has its origin doubtless in the character of the streams, which,
run for the most part by low grass-grown banks, which, being undermined,
shelve over on the edge of the current, or fall into it in great
_scraughs_, or sods. Beneath these lurk the trout of all sizes, sallying
out every now and then like sunbeams into the amber water to catch some
luckless victim passing by. On such an overhanging bank the skilled
Tipperary fisher lies at full length, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and
hands thrust as far beneath the bank as he can reach. If his fingers
touch a fish, away it flies, but only to return shortly and sidle up
against his hand, and be again alarmed. Over and over again this is
repeated, until the fish seems to lose all sense of fear, when the
stealthy, tickling, stroking fingers steal about the gills, and with a
sudden encircling clutch and murderous thrust of the thumb in the
gullet, that too confiding fish's day is ended.
The Tipperary men catch fine fish, and plenty of them in this way. It is
not a lofty style of angling, but it is a curious instance of the
application of means to ends, the end being the fish, the motive hunger,
and the means being confined to strong hands.
Many a fine catch of fish have I seen made by the fishermen of
Tipperary, but the most extraordinary was that of my friend Paddy Ryan.
Paddy had a way of his own, and it was better than snaring or tickling,
and it made Paddy famous as a brave and original fisher.
Up these little tributary streams that flow into the Shannon the salmon
come in the spawning season, ascending until the upper shallows are
reached, when they deposit their eggs, and then work their way back to
the ocean. Great fun it is, too, to watch these lordly fish at some
point where they must leap clear over some small water-fall or mill-dam
if they would pass further up. The water breaks with a mighty swish, and
out comes the salmon, his back like black velvet, and all the rest of
him like a flash of burnished silver, his tail uncurving from the strong
blow that he has struck in his leap, and his fine force and vigor
landing him in the top water, where one great whisk and splash carries
him clean over and out of all danger. Sometimes he falls short, or can
not strike fast enough to overcome the current, and so tumbles back; but
he goes at it again, and, making note of his experience, finally
succeeds.
Paddy Ryan was nine years old, and was a spectator while I cast flies
for trout; and although I was very far up the river, it was not
altogether above the spawning grounds that the salmon sought. I was
sitting on the parapet of an old bridge, and about one hundred feet down
the stream below me there crossed a rough stone dam that diverted some
part of the stream to the little mill owned by Paddy's father. Under the
dam was a deep pool; above it was another, and the water fell over the
dam along its whole length. But just inside the dam, and running
parallel with it for a short distance, was a bank of gravel, which the
last heavy freshet had thrown up. Paddy walked out on this gravel, and
stretched himself on it at full length in pure idleness and lazy
enjoyment of my useless fly-fishing. The trout were not in the humor to
rise, and I had about made up my mind to give up and go home, when all
at once I heard a splash and saw a great salmon come up with a mighty
curve over the dam, overleap it completely, and land in about three
inches of water on the gravel bank within a foot or two of Paddy.
The water flew in every direction, and all over Paddy, who turned with a
startled yell to see what had happened. In another instant he was on top
of the salmon, clutching it with arms and legs, while the powerful fish
struggled and kicked, and Paddy bawled and roared at the top of his
voice. Over rolled Paddy, and over rolled the fish, the water splashing
and the gravel flying so that you could not tell which had the best of
it. Paddy's mother, hearing the commotion, ran out of the cottage up
above the mill.
"Och, murther!" she screamed. "Dinnis! Dinnis! where are ye, Dinnis? an'
a fish atin' me child! Dinnis! Dinnis!"
Paddy's father heard her frantic screams, and came running up from the
mill.
"D'ye see yer child et up be a dirthy fish?" she yelled.
"Begorra!" said the astonished Denis, as he seized a pitchfork, cleared
the mill-race at a bound, ran along the dam, fell into the stream,
scrambled out on the gravel bank, and reached the scene of the conflict.
"Let go of him till I shtick him!" said he.
"I won't," spluttered Paddy; "he'll get away."
"Let go of him, I tell ye!"
"Prod him now, daddy, where he is;" and seeing his chance, prod him
Denis did, and dragged him kicking out on the gravel bank, Paddy,
breathless and exhausted, still holding on to him.
It was a splendid salmon, and it weighed thirty-eight pounds, and I went
home, not feeling as if I cared to pursue fly-fishing any further that
day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
As we happen to know that father and mother as well as the boys and
girls take a weekly peep at the contents of Our Post-office Box, we
insert for their benefit a paragraph which appeared in the Boston
_Journal_ of May 23. The _Journal_ has a very honorable and influential
place among American newspapers, and we are glad to have it express its
appreciation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE in terms so cordial:
"When this weekly, intended specially for young readers, was first
started, we were somewhat curious regarding the special field it
would make for itself. It seemed as if the reading public, old and
young, was supplied with literature adapted to the diversified
wants of all, but we felt assured that the Messrs. Harper were too
thoroughly acquainted with their business as publishers to launch a
craft without a knowledge of the demand which existed for its
support. Time has shown that HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE was wanted to
fill a vacancy. It is already welcomed every Saturday to thousands
of New England homes. Its tone is pure, its articles are always
interesting, and its illustrations are superior to anything ever
attempted in juvenile literature of its class. While it is intended
for the perusal of Rob and Mabel, of Sam and Lucy, we venture to
say that it has been the experience of others, as it has been our
own, that the older heads of the family find in its pages each week
matter not at all beneath their notice on the score of information
and general interest."
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