PADDY RYAN'S BIG FISH.
BY W. M. LAFFAN.
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.
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."
Rochester, New York.
I am a little boy eight years old. My papa has two hunting dogs named Steck and Rob, and I have a pet cat. The dogs are very gentle and kind, and let us tumble all over them; but when they have a bone given them, they fight terribly. Whenever Rob gets a chance he steals the cat's meat, and then she gives him a good scratch. My brother Harry is four years old. He has a little girl friend named Floy, whom he calls his little sweetheart. When I had the scarlet fever, and the doctor said my skin would peel off, Harry said, "Then, Georgie, when your skin peels off, I can see your soul, can't I?" I am sick, and mamma is writing this for me. I hope you will print it, so we can surprise papa, for we have not told him about it. He gave me Harper's Young People last Christmas, and I enjoy it more and more every week. Good-by.
George B. M.
Frankfort-on-the-Main, Germany.
We have taken Harper's Young People from the beginning, and we enjoy it very much.
It is just nine years since we left America. Six of these have been spent in Paris, one in Freiburg, in Baden, and two here. We like this city exceedingly. It is very beautiful and interesting. In the "Judengasse," the principal street of the old Jewish quarter of the town, in an ancient rickety house still standing, were born the ancestors of the wealthy Von Rothschilds. Near by, in a similar house, Boerne was born. Goethe's birth-house, in another street, is more respectable, and full of souvenirs of Germany's great poet.
The opera-house here is as beautiful as the one in Paris. Other attractions are the Palmengarten, the Zoological Garden, the forest, the river, the cathedral, picture-galleries, museums, historical buildings, monuments, and the renowned and graceful sculpture of Ariadne on the lion's back, by Dannecker. The town is encircled by the "Promenade," a zigzaggy avenue of green woods, lovely lawns with flower beds, lakes, fountains, statues, etc., at the place of the old fortifications.
There are numbers of Hebrews here. They have many noble traits of character, and some we know are more Christian-like than many Christians. Besides that, they are very intelligent and quick. We have plenty of friends among them, and we like them very much.
I have two sisters and two brothers. We all go to school, except my elder sister, who studies at the Conservatory of Music, of which the great composer Joachim Raff is director, and which counts among its teachers Frau Clara Schumann and the violinist Hermann.
My baby brother, who was born in Paris, understands perfectly French and English, but will speak nothing but German. He attends the Kindergarten. I take lessons on the violin, and in drawing, elocution, Italian, and "the grand dialect the prophets spake," Hebrew.
I love Longfellow, and I feel so grieved at his death! I have a precious autograph of his, written expressly for me; it is the first verse of his beautiful poem, "Excelsior," and his name.
I think, upon the whole, that America is the best country in the world. However much we are attached to Europe, we will be glad to get home. Papa is now in New York; he has crossed the Atlantic Ocean twenty times.
Would the editor or any of the readers please give me a list of all the different inventions and discoveries made by Americans, and oblige their loving compatriot,
A. M. W.
A complete list of all the inventions and discoveries, small and great, which have been made by Americans, would fill a very large space in Our Post-office Box, even if printed in the closest and tiniest of type. Not to speak of that fairy of the household, the sewing-machine, and of that wizard, the electric telegraph, there are dozens of useful and beautiful things to make life easier and homes more charming which the world owes to our countrymen. We shall leave the question of A. M. W. to our bright little correspondents, and we hope to print some replies to it before long.
BED-TIME.
BY LUCY RANDOLPH FLEMING.
Tell you a story? Dear me!
And which one shall I tell?
How Tommy Green, in cruel sport,
Dropped Pussy in the well?
Shall I tell you of Dame Hubbard's dog,
And the wonderful things he did;
Or of poor Bo-Peep, who could not tell
Where her wandering sheep were hid?
Or shall I tell of the dreadful wolf
Who met Red Riding-hood;
Or will you hear the sad, sad tale
Of the Children in the Wood?
Of Cinderella, who sat by the fire,
And wanted to go to the ball,
And the nice old godmother who came
With the slippers of glass, and all?
Or shall I sing of the active cow
Who jumped right over the moon?
Perhaps she frightened the man up there,
And made him come "down too soon."
Or will you hear of the famous birds
All baked in the royal pie?
I think we could make a better dish
With "a pocket full of rye."
What! baby mine, you are going to sleep,
And none of the stories are told?
The blue eyes are shut, and the pillow waits
For the touch of the curls of gold.
Nashua, New Hampshire.
I am a little girl ten years old. I have two pet rabbits; they are white, with pink eyes. We have a little toy terrier, all blue, with long silky hair; she is one of the smallest dogs in America or Europe. I have been taking music lessons ever since I was seven years old; I have been studying Mozart's sonatas. My grandpa has four kittens, and I play with them every day. We have three cages of birds, two in one cage, two in another, and fourteen in the third. I have two brothers. We go to school, and all study German.
Harriet E. S.
Girard, Kansas.
My brother and I have concluded to write a letter together. I am twelve, and he is a year and a half younger. Our aunt Minnie, living in Pennsylvania, made us a present of Harper's Young People this year. We think she is a good, kind aunt, although we have never seen her. We are going to get up a club next year, as we want all our school-mates to read it. Eddie and I signed the pledge during the Murphy movement never to use tobacco or profane language, and we intend to keep it, and hope our little friends will do the same. We live five miles from Girard, the county seat. My mamma came thirteen years ago, and saw the first house erected, and now the place has two railroads, and a population of 1731. We live near Lightning Creek, and have lots of fun fishing, although the fish are not so fine as some we read of, being mostly sunfish and catfish, although sometimes we get a nice bass. We have a nice garden, and had new potatoes and pease the 28th of May. Our two little brothers, named Colimo and Lew, love to look at the pictures in Young People. We do not go to school this summer, as there is none in our district; we had a six months' school last winter. But we are not idle; we weed and hoe in the garden, help to milk, chop wood, and do many other things. We have sixty-nine little chickens, and had fifteen little turkeys, but they have all died except four. Could any one tell us what was the cause of it? They seemed weak and drooping for several days. Mamma was advised to feed them with cooked food, and so she did, but it did no good.
Willie D., Eddie D., and Mother.
You were not more unsuccessful than many others with your flock of turkeys. Young turkeys are very hard to raise, and sometimes their mother takes them out into the wet grass, and they get tired, and take cold. Should you have another brood at any time, be very careful to keep them dry and warm. A friend who has had experience with turkeys tells the Postmistress that the little ones require almost as careful tending as babies do.
The Postmistress wonders whether you ever heard of a young woman's expecting to be paid for being so good as to learn to sew? Most of us think we ought to pay those who are good enough to teach us anything, as teachers really have to take more trouble than pupils do. Many years ago a lady undertook to show some women in the South Sea Islands how to make their own dresses. They were quite anxious to look like the missionary ladies, who were the only Europeans they had ever seen. A young woman attended very regularly for some weeks, and became quite skillful. One Saturday night she presented herself with the native servants, and begged to be paid her wages for learning to sew.
Mrs. Ellis said: "Why should I pay you? In our country those who learn pay their teachers."
The woman answered, very earnestly: "You asked me to come and learn. I have been here so long I have learned. It must be in some way an advantage to you, or else you would not be so anxious about it. As I have done it to please you, you ought to pay me for my goodness."
She was pacified by being engaged to sew for the missionaries.
Greenfield, Illinois.
I am a boy twelve years old. We live near the woods, and mamma is helping me to make a leaf-album. I have a good many sheets of paper covered with pressed leaves, such as elm, cotton-wood, plum, willow, etc. It is a very interesting occupation, and the leaves look very pretty when pressed out. It teaches us so much about the woods too. I have a small cabinet of curiosities also. We live near a school-house, and the other day I found a wren's nest in a rose-bush in the school yard. We watch it very closely to keep the boys away until the little ones can fly. We think it is a very pretty idea to build a nest among the roses. Don't you? Young People is the best of papers.
Jess L. B.
Yes, indeed. Wrens are so sociable that they like to build close by people, and probably the wee mother liked the rose-bush because it was near the school-house. I wonder if she listens, while you boys recite your lessons? A leaf-album is both interesting and instructive. It is a good plan to write the name of each leaf under it, and the date of the day it was gathered, as well as whatever you know about the place where it was found.