the road to Cashel, where we hoped to stop for that night and the next day, which was going to be Sunday, according to my convictions. We met peasants, and jaunting-cars, and cattle and "gossoons" (boys, these latter), and in due time we feasted our eyes on Holy Cross Abbey. We strayed about the green yard, peered into nooks and corners of the exquisite old place, which looks on such an evening like a beautiful dream of bygone days; the dainty windows, the slim pillars, the cool stone, carved and fretted in a score of graceful shapes-ah! it was the sweetest sight I looked on, after all. We turned back many a time for another look as it smiled in the afterglow of the sunset, and then we set to in earnest to make Cashel before dark, that is, in those twilight latitudes, some time before eleven o'clock. The roads were once more their old cleanly selves, and we sped along at a fairly smart pace, until, looming high before us in the fading twilight, we sighted that noble and stately ruin which meetly crowns the grand Rock of Cashel. Did you ever grin at the idea of kings in Ireland? Well, go to Cashel, roam through the immense fortress, creep in between the walls, up and down slimy steps, pausing, horrified, one minute before you step down into a dark, cold, bottom

less abyss, with water gleaming away far below you; stand on the great tower and look out over the plain where Hore Abbey lies in ruins, and six castles of six centuries' dead chiefs show gray and dim through the land; go into King Cormac's Chapel, where the kings of Ireland were crowned, that small, sacred, indescribably impressive nook where you dare no longer doubt, or jeer, or grin; and while your heart and mind accept the kings of Ireland, your modern pine-shaving democracy will curl and wither up within you-just see if it doesn't!

We did not go near the rock that Saturday night, but scuttled along in the growing gloom to secure our beds and rest our tired limbs. I don't know about Tim, but I felt rather done up, and knew with painful exactness the locality and size of each and every bruise which I owed to that heap of broken stones t'other side of Kilkenny. Very early on Sunday morning a steady tramp of feet wakened me from dreams, and Tim's voice outside the door, in anxious parley with the boots on some question of route, breakfast or other important subject, make me jump up and look out of the window. It was only early sunrise, but the cobblestone street was full of pious townsfolk on the way to prayers, the men silent and decorous,

the women bulky and short-skirted, with their heads peeping from very voluminous-gathered peasant cloaks or loosely woven Irish wool shawls. They seldom spoke, but walked in groups down the footpath and street. I scrambled back into bed for another sleep. After breakfast we prowled out to explore the Rock of Cashel, and on inquiring for the guide, were told that "Misther Fogarty was at the Mass, but a gyurl could be had." A plain lump of a lass was presently directed to our whereabouts by a tiny Irishman in tatters, who ran at my side and begged for a penny for "bringin' of her out, me lady." He was a funny wee child, bright and observant, but either purposely or hideously ignorant. Tim told him dreadful tales of our adventures, and I noticed that the youngster gave me a very wide berth; so that I fancy Tim's time-worn horror of a Canadian who "would as soon ate you as look at you, mind that now!" had been worked upon his childish mind. The gyurl was obtuse and unsympathetic, and after asking her a great many questions and getting a placid "I do' know; sure, if Misther Fogarty was here he would tell ye," to every one of them, we left her swinging her bare feet as she sat on a tombstone, crooning a truly Irish ballad about a "bould boy" and a fair maid, while we started on our own explorations.

It is a queer feeling to walk inside a hollow wall and peer from loop-holes into rooms or out over the country. One realizes some of the power such a means of overlooking gave to the monks of old, and one sees how easy it would be to invite a friend who was de trop to take such a walk, and when he came to the head of one of those short, slimy stairways to give him a push, and then listen until he soused into that black pool away down in the depths. The passages just admitted Tim's broad shoulders, and we roamed and shuddered and whispered, and finally emerged into the light and brightness of some solid old tower-top.

The requisite round tower was on hand also, and without doubt the Rock of Cashel holds one of the grandest ruins I have ever looked at. German castles, however handsome and picturesque, are not to be named in the same day as Cashel. Its rugged, immense walls, so stern, so strong, and so hoary,

will ever stand above all in my memory of ruins. The Holy Cross in the castle yard, with its base of a Druidical altar, reversed, consecrated, and so received as a fitting support for the massive stone emblem of Christianity; the chapel of King Cormac, with its wonderful allegorical carvings and wide baptismal font-all the impressive and weird associations that crowd around early Irish history came over me as I lingered loath to leave the storied spot. Our next ride, too, was to end in such a different, though, to me, a very interesting spot, the scene of many an "illigant ruction," the battleground of the Land League and the landlord, whom they utterly failed to subdue-the town of Tipperary. The very name has a flavor of wildness to me, and the freaks of fate which played hob with Old Tipperary and New Tipperary, and the stories over which I had laughed till I cried in Dublin, made me curious to see the rival towns. About noon we left Cashel and took a quiet Sunday ride west into the heart of County Tipperary.

No one was shocked at us. Mass was over, and the rest of the day was to be holiday, not holy day, as we soon found out while we whirled past groups of ball players, snug picnic parties tucked into inside cars in appalling crowds, sweethearts hovering along the footpath or sitting demurely on some wayside bank, men in grave discussions or heated argument over the present excitement," th' elections." Some sneaking Sabbatarian qualms kept me from making of my all-consuming and convenient thirst the usual excuse for getting a sight of the infrequent cabins' Sunday interiors. Flying pictures haunt me, as I write, of the bright-eyed children who laughed and ran out to see us; of the many yapping dogs, and the quiet, subdued-looking women. Now I recall the glimpse of a pair of lovers, seated with wreathed arms and radiant faces; now a merry group of jolly little chaps, a prim party of gentry on their way to service, a long line of men propped against some low sunshiny wall, houses overflowing with children, who scuttled out to give us a silvery good wish-"God bless the lady." Presently we came to signs of a town, and ere long were speeding swiftly along the main street of Tipperary the Elder.

AM going to tell of black-bass fishing in Maine, where the bass do not grow much over six pounds, except in newspaper accounts, and where the fly-fisher is not sufficiently numerous to teach the natives to look down on the humble troller. Yes, I confess it with shame, in trolling for black-bass I have passed many delightful hours and procured many a string of fish that have been a source of secret envy to less fortunate companions.

Early one morning in July I walked rapidly along a country road on my way to fulfill an appointment to "go a-fishin'" with no less a personage than Jack Pike, the blacksmith and general factotum of a little Maine village. I had long been a secret admirer of this worthy, for I had heard prodigious tales of "Jack's luck" and had gazed with unconcealed admiration at the trim lancewood rod and dainty tackle that ornamented a chosen corner of the dingy smithy.

Decidedly a blacksmith who so far defied the traditions of the place as to fish for bass with a seven-ounce lancewood instead of yanking out pickerel with a fifteen-foot pole, was a rara avis whom it was well worth while to cultivate. Since then, in numberless tramps through the backwoods, and in expeditions over secluded lakes and along unknown streams, I have often. proved the value of the wit and wisdom that came from one of the kindest hearts that man was ever blessed with. was not without learning also, and his occasional discussions of the topics of the day showed a keen insight into public affairs and human nature.

He

As I approached the shop the rhythmic blows of the hammer told me that Jack was evidently improving his time while waiting for me. As I came up to the open door, however, he stopped and threw the hammer away with a sigh of

relief.

"I'd 'bout given you up," he said "an' started in to fix Mose Harper's mowin' machine, but I guess it's just as well I didn't." Then, on my halfhearted request that he keep right on working and we wait until another day, he continued:

"No; I sot out to go a-fishin' to-day, and I'm a-goin.' Besides, I'll be doin' that durn fool a real kindness not to fix his ol' machine. If he gits that done today, he won't know any better 'n to go an' mow down a lot o' hay, an' we're goin' to hev rain 'fore night just as sure as my name's Jack Pike. But, I reckon, we better be a-movin', fer it won't be long 'fore every durn fool in the village will be here with a hoss to shoe. They allus come when I want to go a-fishin'."

With this naïve bit of philosophy, he started through the fields to the lake, and I obediently followed. We soon reached the lake, but just as we were pushing off, a hoarse voice from the direction of the village came floating over the trees.

"J-a-a-ck! Oh, Ja-a-a-a-a-ck!" Jack. looked at me with a dry smile.

"There, that fool jest knowed I wanted to go a-fishin' to-day, and he came 'round early so I'd have to fix his. blamed ol' mowin'-machine, but I ruther guess we fooled him."

Just then a pensive bull-calf in thenext pasture answered the persistent. seeker after "J-a-a-a-ck!" with a plaintive "Pa-a-a-a!" ending in that divine guttural trill that only a healthy bullcalf can successfully accomplish.

The situation was not without humor, and as Jack rowed silently but rapidly away, he murmured partly to himself:

"Two of a kind. Two of a kind, an', I reckon, the young un has got the most sense."

As the last, lingering echoes of the bull-calf died away, I got out my line and began to troll for black-bass. Now, don't think you know all about trolling, my friend learned in piscatorial sport, for perhaps you don't. Trolling for black-bass is a science. I thought I knew it all, but when I had rigged my tackle, under Jack's direction, I felt like:

a novice. In the first place, I took a three-yard double leader and fastened to it four flies, selected by Jack from my fairly well-filled book. If I remember rightly, he chose a "Furguson," two Furguson," two "polkas" and a" grizzly king." At any rate, subsequent experience has taught me that these are among the best for trolling in that region. Fastening the leader to a light oiled-silk line (size F), which ran smoothly from a multiplying Hendryx click reel, fastened firmly on a seven-ounce lance-wood, which Jack had pronounced a "purty good pole," I was ready for business. I dropped the cast overboard, and let it run out behind the boat until fifteen or twenty yards were missing from the reel. I wanted to stop then, but Jack wouldn't hear of it, until over a hundred feet were trailing along behind us.

I had caught bass before, but I must say that I felt a little scared when I thought of the "gleaming eight-pound warrior" of the newspapers at the end of that delicate contrivance. However, I will warn every one that, in spite of the veracity of a truthful and unprejudiced press, eight-pounders were never quite in my line, or rather on my line.

Jack was now rowing very slowly along the shore, keeping the boat out far enough for my flies to just escape the occasional lily-pads that frequently grow along rocky and sandy shores. Pretty soon a series of little twitches told me that something was fooling with the cast. Then the twitches became sharper, and every now and then they were strong enough to run a foot or so of line off the reel. A look of disgust had gradually spread over Jack's face.

"We've run through a herd of them good fer nothin' perch, and you've got one on every hook."

Upon reeling in I found he was indeed a true prophet, for on the first three hooks were three perch gasping with astonishment at their sudden introduction into polite society. The fourth hook, however, held a small bass not more than four inches long. As he seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself, and looked duly penitent at being caught in such company, I tossed him overboard, but the perch were consigned to an old starch-box with the following rather enigmatical remark from Jack : "'Round here folks think them's good

enough fer hogs. Shouldn't wonder if you caught some more." I fancied there was a slight emphasis on the "you," but as Jack seemed as solemn as the occasion demanded, I concluded I was mistaken.

I let out my line and we went on near the shore in perfect silence, excepting the faint cawing of crows in a distant pine, and the shrill peep of an occasional snipe that was picking up his breakfast along the sand flats we passed. The water was still, and the trees and rocks on the shore were caught and held in perfect reflection. The morning sun, just rising over the tops of the pines that stood along the shore in dark array, cheered me and robbed the air of its chill. The subdued ripple of the oars as Jack silently and slowly forced the boat through the pictured woods, lulled me into a dreamy reverie in which every thought was of peace and pleasure. The magic charm of the woods was upon me, and everything seemed to happen with the delightful irrationality of a dream. I realized then as never before that all the charm of a day's fishing is not in the sport itself.

But my dreaming came to an abrupt end as I suddenly felt a sharp tug, and then my reel began to shriek its sharp warning. The change from repose to action was instantaneous. There was no need of Jack's quick "Look out!" I was looking out, and, standing up in that little boat, was engaged in a battle royal with that glittering flash of silver that now and again showed itself so very far away.

Well, yes, I suppose, Mister Cynic, that any fool can catch a fish, and that it is a little thing to make a fuss about; but let me put you into a combination with a light rod, a long line, and a threepound chunk of perversity called a black bass, and if there are not times when you are willing to back the bass for all you are worth, call me no fisherman. And if you do not feel every nerve in your body tingle with excitement as the fish plunges in every direction and never seems to be coming nearer the boat, then you are indeed a cynic, and really very much to be pitied.

Slowly I reeled the bass in, but not without considerable reluctance on his part, and with no little firm persuasion on mine. Jack had meantime set the boat with steady, easy strokes, away