white water-lilies, and the curlews flit to and fro, crying
"Tullie-wheep, mind your sheep"; and Dennis tells you strange stories of
the Peishtamore, the great bogy-snake which lies in the black peat
pools, among the old pine-stems, and puts his head out at night to snap
at the cattle as they come down to drink?--But you must not believe all
that Dennis tells you, mind; for if you ask him:

"Is there a salmon here, do you think, Dennis?"

"Is it salmon, thin, your honour manes? Salmon? Cartloads it is of thim,
thin, an' ridgmens, shouldthering ache out of water, av' ye'd but the
luck to see thim."

Then you fish the pool all over, and never get a rise.

"But there can't be a salmon here, Dennis! and, if you'll but think, if
one had come up last tide, he'd be gone to the higher pools by now."

"Shure thin, and your honour's the thrue fisherman, and understands it
all like a book. Why, ye spake as if ye'd known the wather a thousand
years! As I said, how could there be a fish here at all, just now?"

"But you said just now they were shouldering each other out of water?"

And then Dennis will look up at you with his handsome, sly, soft,
sleepy, good-natured, untrustable, Irish grey eye, and answer with the
prettiest smile:

"Shure, and didn't I think your honour would like a pleasant answer?"

So you must not trust Dennis, because he is in the habit of giving
pleasant answers: but, instead of being angry with him, you must
remember that he is a poor Paddy, and knows no better; so you must just
burst out laughing; and then he will burst out laughing too, and slave
for you, and trot about after you, and show you good sport if he
can--for he is an affectionate fellow, and as fond of sport as you
are--and if he can't, tell you fibs instead, a hundred an hour; and
wonder all the while why poor ould Ireland does not prosper like England
and Scotland, and some other places, where folk have taken up a
ridiculous fancy that honesty is the best policy.

Or was it like a Welsh salmon river, which is remarkable chiefly (at
least, till this last year) for containing no salmon, as they have been
all poached out by the enlightened peasantry, to prevent the _Cythrawl
Sassenach_ (which means you, my little dear, your kith and kin, and
signifies much the same as the Chinese _Fan Quei_) from coming bothering
into Wales, with good tackle, and ready money, and civilisation, and
common honesty, and other like things of which the Cymry