THE MAYFLY. 27 



angler in the far west of Ireland once told me that the perch 

 of Lough Corrib were, the moment your back was turned, 

 in the habit of climbing up the banks, stealing a worm from 

 the bag, and slinking again into the water to devour it at 

 leisure. That may not have been true, but it was his story, 

 and in return for it I gave him an appreciative laugh, and a 

 pipe of tobacco. 



These urchin perch to-day, however, rise madly at my 

 Mayfly. I am whipping carelessly right and left as the 

 wind wafts me towards the shore, and from a shallow part 

 where the weeds are not two inches under water I decoy 

 something which comes with a bang, and that something to 

 my amazement is a perch. For the fun of the thing, and 

 to thin out the undesirable companions of the trout, I lessen 

 the number by a couple of dozen. The body of the fly 

 looks like a fat caddis worm, and I put the folly of the 

 perch down to that score, but adding a red spinner to test 

 the matter, they still come and pursue both lures close to 

 the punt. The teeth of the game little zebras of the water 

 do not improve my Mayfly. The imposing feathers become 

 ragged, then as perch after perch is caught the gauzy wings 

 and long tail vanish, and finally there is nothing left but the 

 half yellow half buff body, wrapped round with brown silk 

 ribbing frayed and torn. This is a serious loss when, as I 

 have discovered too late, there are but three Mayflies left 

 in the book. 



Sir Melton Mowbray at lunch promises to take my advice, 

 buy a net, and remove the perch ; and, beholding my good 

 fortune, he betrays a sudden interest in the sport of angling, 

 and carefully copies the address of the best tackle shop I 

 can recommend. But the hon. baronet must build a proper 



