68 BIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS 



there are none. * As by magic, the hatch has ceased, and 

 of all those myriads, not a living fly can now be seen. 

 Not one survives' — only the wreckage, the flotsam and 

 jetsam, drifting limp, black and dead. Countless corpses 

 strew the backwaters and darken every foam-wreath. 



Nature's little tragedy is over for that day. It has 

 lasted forty minutes. In that period those March-browns 

 have lived their lives — some of them ; and all have died. 

 Birds and fish alike have disappeared — satiated. But the 

 angler — what of him ? Few, it may be, and disappointing 

 are the captures he has made. Why should he, or rather, 

 how can he expect to succeed ? Amidst all those myriads 

 of the real living prey, why should the silliest of trout 

 consider a feathery counterfeit? A "general hatch" is 

 not the angler's chance. That will come presently, and 

 with less demonstration. It comes when he sees those 

 quiet steady rises — at nice regular intervals — just outside 

 the curl of the current ; and when but a stray spring-fly 

 flickers here and there in the shade of the willows. 



