54 I N THE DAYS OF 



In the quaint language of an old 

 writer, it has been prettily written of the 

 May-fly : 



" One moment in the sun she fans her wings, 

 And smooths to roundness all their mazy rings ; 

 Then, Nature to the summer air she springs. 

 Beware, O Beauty ! in the streamlet lies 

 A gay-robed gallant with adoring eyes ; 

 Meet not his kiss, for she he kisseth dies." 



On the bank yonder the dry-fly fisher 

 sits with field-glasses covering a stretch 

 of water. He has observed the " rise "of 

 the fly, and his object is now to locate 

 the movement of a big fish ; for the 

 smaller fry are leaping and frolicking all 

 over the stream, and cramming them- 

 selves to their brown, shiny lips with the 

 May-flies. It is hot very hot and 

 the flies that buzz about the fern tor- 

 ment the patient watcher's perspiring 

 face. 



Suddenly the field-glasses are encased 

 and the angler, having noticed the type 



