DAYS STOLEN FOB SPOKT 161 



was dull and lifeless. The May-fly's up, and the 

 fishers' yearly carnival will soon be in full swing. 



We, my friend H. G. D. and I, were on the 

 Kennet with the sole privilege of fishing three 

 miles of the very best of that best of rivers when 

 the May-fly is up. The keeper wired the news 

 and, as it found us both alive, we were by the 

 river waiting the rise, and had walked its length, 

 so far as our interest extended, and seen fish or 

 tails of fish that when captured would satisfy the 

 hungriest ambition for a monster Kennet trout. 



Below the bridge and beyond the long shallow, 

 just where the river begins to deepen before taking 

 a sharp bend, is the home of the oldest patriarch 

 within the keeper's knowledge, thirteen pounds at 

 least. We could see only his tail at first, but now 

 and then the long green banners that hid all else 

 of him would, in their swaying with the stream, 

 have a rent which gave us glimpses of his huge 

 spotted side. There he is and has been these 

 twelve months past without a thought for flies, but 

 presently he will become a victim to the feverish 

 haste that will possess all the other fish to gobble 

 up the luscious drake, which once tasted, all 

 thoughts of moderation go, and, like drunkards, 

 they are not so particular as they were about what 

 they take. Men (some of us) go just as mad about 

 the May-fly only more so and much earlier. The 

 year's business is so arranged that we may see the 

 first fly's struggle to free itself from the shell in 

 which it has grown to be so wonderfully perfect. 



The keeper, being the most observant, was the 

 first to see a fly and called our attention to it. 

 " There's a fly, gentlemen. Let's go back and put 



