In the Museum at York there is a complete skeleton of a moa, which besides feathers, has the integuments of the feet partly preserved; from which it is evident that the toes were covered with small hexagonal scales. A specimen has also been sent by Dr Haast of New Zealand to Professor Milne-Edwards, which is to be seen in the Museum of Natural History at Paris.
[THE BRIDGE POOL.]
Among the many rivers and streams watering the south-west of Ireland and falling into the Atlantic, few present greater attractions to the wandering angler than the bright little Caragh of County Kerry. This beautiful salmon river takes its rise in Lough Cloon, and after a rapid winding course of seven or eight miles through the lovely valley of Glencar, at length falls into Lake Caragh, one of the finest and most picturesque sheets of water in the south of Ireland. The river leaves Lake Caragh at its northern extremity, and after gliding for two or three miles farther through a deep rocky glen, finally discharges itself by an arm of the sea into Dingle Bay.
Lough Cloon where, as already mentioned, the river Caragh rises, is a small but very deep mountain lake, and surrounded on all sides by heather-clad hills, which gradually slope down to its rocky shores. Farther away, the mountains become more precipitous, till at length the eye rests on bare cliffs and towering crags which rear their snow-capped peaks to the skies, and complete a picture which for wild grandeur it would be difficult to surpass. On a still day, the silence around the lake is peculiarly impressive if not awe-inspiring; not a breath of air ruffles the dark waters of Lough Cloon; not a sound catches the ear but the distant bleat of a goat from the opposite crags, the shrill cry of the curlew from the moor hard by, or the sullen plunge of a leaping salmon far away in the loch.
To the ornithologist this wild spot possesses unusual attractions. Here he may at times see the golden eagle soaring aloft, a mere speck in the sky; or perchance observe a pair of the royal birds beating the hill-side in search of mountain hares to bear away to their eyry on the steep side of old Carrantuohill. Such, comparatively speaking, rare birds as the peregrine falcon, the buzzard, raven, and many others that might be named, are also to be met with, and have their nests among these Kerry mountains, and afford a pleasing study to the young naturalist.
But to return. The upper part of the Caragh river, from Lough Cloon to where the stream is spanned from bank to bank by a picturesque old arch called Bealalaw Bridge, offers few inducements to the salmon-fisher, on account of the shallowness of the water; though doubtless after a flood, when the fish are moving up stream, there are two or three casts well worth a trial. Immediately below the bridge, however, and stretching almost in a direct line towards the south-west through a deep rocky gorge, lies the celebrated Bridge Pool. This far-famed and somewhat singular salmon-cast is of great length, perhaps reaching two hundred and fifty yards from end to end, but is nowhere broader than fifty feet. The sides of the pool are for the most part steep and jagged, rising almost perpendicularly to a considerable height above the edge of the river. The water is dark coloured and of great depth, so much so, that on the brightest day it is impossible to see the rocky bottom. At the top of the pool, where the river surges through the narrow strait below the bridge, there is a considerable current; but lower down the stream gradually dies away, till at length the pool becomes almost dead water, flat and motionless.
The Bridge Pool, on account of its great depth and rocky bottom, is a favourite resting-place of the salmon. Here many an exhausted fish, after escaping the deadly nets so murderously plied by the fishermen of Lake Caragh, and surmounting the numberless obstacles and dangers besetting its path up from the sea, at length reaches a retreat where it can recruit its strength, and thus be enabled later to push on to the end of its journey. Even here, however, the poor wanderer is not altogether out of harm's way. Though safe from the fangs of prowling otter and beyond the reach of poacher's net or cruel leister, it is ever in danger of being in snared by the angler's glittering lure. And see! here comes one of Salmo salar's deadly enemies, a Glencar fisherman, accompanied by an aged guide, a veteran follower of the craft, bearing his long shining rod. Let us watch their movements, as they consult together what is to be the fly wherewith to tempt from his hiding-place one of those noble fellows lying at anchor in the pool hard by. They have chosen a good day for their sport. There has been rain in the night, not a heavy downpour, but sufficient to colour the water a brown tinge. The morning is cloudy, with occasional gleams of sunshine; and a fresh breeze from the south-west blows steadily through the old arch, and ruffles the surface of the pool from end to end.
And now the pair have completed their preparations, and the angler, rod in hand, carefully descends the steep bank to a small sandy bay just below the bridge, from whence he can command the upper reach of the cast. The fly, skilfully directed by the wielder of the rod in a diagonal direction down stream, falls light as thistle-down close to the far bank, and the current brings it across in a bold sweep to the near side. The line is lengthened a few feet, and the process repeated again and again, till presently the foot of the rapid is reached, but with no good result. After a brief consultation the two now cross the bridge, and skirting the far side, presently approach one of the best casts in the river. Nearly opposite to where they are now standing, a giant rock boldly projects into the stream, and just below, where the dark water slowly curls round the point of the stone, lies a favourite lodge for a 'fish.'
Commencing a few yards above this spot, and keeping well out of sight as he advances, the angler carefully covers each foot of water, till presently his fly slowly glides past the projecting angle of the rock. Ha! What was that bright flash of silver, swiftly darting upwards from the depths of the black abyss? It is the monarch of the pool, a glorious silvery sixteen-pounder; in a second he clutches the treacherous bunch of shining feathers concealing the barbed hook; and with a flourish of his broad tail, down he goes to his lodge again; but now the angler plays his part, and with a firm stroke of the rod drives the hook deep into the fish's jaws. Away goes the affrighted creature swift as lightning down the pool. The reel groans as it rapidly pays out the line, and the rod is raised over the shoulder till bent nearly double; but on goes the gallant fish despite the tremendous pressure put upon him, and then suddenly rising to the surface, he makes a supreme effort to release himself by leaping high in the air; in descending he strikes the taut gut-cast with his tail, dashes the hook from his mouth, and once more free as air, dives to the bottom of the river.