THE EMPTY CREEL 187 



tance of a favorite trout stream, for I prefer to 

 fish familiar streams, returning again and again 

 to "fished-out" waters, to the great amusement of 

 my friends but withal to my own satisfaction. 

 A poet has asserted that "perfect" days come in 

 June; but I do not agree: May produces them. 

 The air was soft and caressing, with that pe- 

 culiar piquant odor characteristic of early spring, 

 and palpitant with the hum of bees, as they 

 sought far and wide for scarce sweets. A first 

 brood of may-flies brushed the surface of the 

 rippling stream with gauzy wing, seeming as 

 much creatures of the water as of the air; per- 

 haps one could call them embodied spirits of the 

 evanescent ripples. Flowers, modest and retir- 

 ing hepaticas, spring beauties, arbutus, ane- 

 mones, trilliums rank on rank, marched down 

 to the very water's edge to watch the insects at 

 their sports and nod encouragement. In the 

 trees, for it was the high-tide of warbler migra- 

 tion those beautiful wee sprites, the aristocrats 

 of birddom, called incessantly, "Sweet, sweet, 

 sweet" ; while in the low shrubbery the more hum- 

 ble but not less lovable birds poured out their 

 very souls in a torrent of melody. 



Lest some one should think my language ex- 

 travagant, I am going to pause long enough to 



