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¶ 1 Leave a comment on paragraph 1 0 608 HOUSEHOLD WORDS. [Conducted by

¶ 2 Leave a comment on paragraph 2 0 they find themselves drawn to shore, whether they will or no, and seized by the hot, cruel hands of man. If our trout of the Bann kept outside, or were alert enough to spring over at the last moment, it is on its way to its own river, rejoicing. The Bush river comes first, and there the Bush salmon take leave of all the rest for a season, and part off to their country seats for the autumn and Christmas. When the mouth of the Bann is reached, so do the Bann fish, whisking up stream, under Coleraine bridge, and onwards another mile, to where the salt water meets the fresh.

¶ 3 Leave a comment on paragraph 3 1 Here is a point of such danger, that we pause to take breath. There are some few chances of escape; but the perils are awful. All that the poor fish has any doubt about is as to whether it can leap up those rocks, over which the fresh waters are pouring like a cataract. It can make the leap, no doubt. Every salmon does. And it will no doubt keep at the top when it has got there—which is the most wonderful part of the business to the human observer. How it is that the rush of the stream over the natural weir does not carry back the fish in a moment is a mystery to us: but the salmon would pro­bably despise us if we asked any questions, even as old women despise kings who inquire how the apple gets into the dumpling. So we will merely say that the young salmon obeys instructions as it did in going down; sets its rudder straight, stiffens its body, and shoots forward with all its might, against the rush of waters.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on paragraph 4 1 And is it safe, after all? There are so many perils that it knows not of! There are buildings in the bed of the river, every stone and every brick of which was laid in malice prepense against the salmon of the Bann. There are half-a-dozen stout stone walls or piers, built-backwards from the rocky weir, enclosing spaces which are (all but the middle one) as many traps for the fish. At the upper end, there are iron gratings to each trap­doors which open and shut: and at the lower end there are also iron gratings which are nearly closed, but not quite. A space of a few inches is left between the gratings, which incline backwards so as to direct, as it were, the approaching fish to the little gap. When they have once leaped in, they can never more get out. For a few moments, amidst the dash and roar of the descending waters, they are unconscious of their fate. They are whirled back; they shoot across the pool; and at length they dash themselves madly against the upper gratings: but it is all in vain. If they could pass this one grating, they would be safe for this year; for there is no net—no salmon fishing above the weir. The Irish Society, to whom the fishery belongs, take care of that: and if, as at present, they let the fishery to an individual, he is no less careful. One of the two neat red-brick cottages which are built on the outermost piers, is for the watchman who looks to the poachers. The other has the great scales for weighing the fish, and other apparatus. It is somewhat piteous to see the silvery scales of many a fish sticking to the balance, while the seething traps below are tempting more to their fate. As for the other cottage, it contains a little bed, where the watchman takes his sleep in the daytime, amidst such a din of waters as would make a fierce lullaby to most of us. By night, while his solitary candle burns within, throw­ing a feeble gleam from the lattice upon the surrounding foam, he is stealing about along the piers, and across the shaking planks, which make bridges from one to another. He peeps and pries and peers about, to see if any improper nets be in the water. Perhaps while he is doing so, the poachers may be watching his dim form from under the shadow of the solemn woods which come down to the river banks. Perhaps they may be actually in the river—up to their waists in water, under the shadow of the piers. If caught, their punishment is a fine of about six pounds for each offence; in default of payment, six months imprisonment.

¶ 5 Leave a comment on paragraph 5 1 The flapping and frightened fish remain in their trap till the next Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday morning, when the men fish them out with landing-nets. Last Thursday morning there were seventy-three salmon: this morning, there were sixty-one. The youngest and smallest weigh four pounds: the greater number rise from twelve pounds to twenty pounds; and even twenty-five pounds is not an uncommon weight. The price of salmon in the towns along the coast is about sixpence per pound—unless where hotel – keepers impose on inexpe­rienced travellers. But, the fish from these traps are packed in boxes, and forwarded by cart to Port Rush for export. When the railway to Londonderry is finished, they will, no doubt, be sent there too, on their way to many new places. The ice in which they are packed is supplied, in hard winters, from Irish lakes and ponds: but the last two winters have been too mild to supply the requisite quantity; so that the fish from the green depths of this solemn coast have been preserved in ice from the still, unfathomable lakes, freezing below the black pine forests of Norway.

¶ 6 Leave a comment on paragraph 6 0 Our subject has grown sombre and some­what too pathetic. Let us take a brighter view.

¶ 7 Leave a comment on paragraph 7 0 Our young salmon was certainly not caught on this, its first ascent; for it is known to have revisited the haunts of its infancy. We have said that there was one space (it is the centre one) between the piers which is not a trap. It is called the Queen’s Gap; and any fish which are lucky or discreet enough to go straight up mid-stream, pass here without impediment. It is wide open at both ends. The same may be said of all on Sundays, except that any fish that have entered between