THE MAYFLY. 157 



Looking back on it now, I had of course 

 acted as the young man in a hurry; for, 

 although the greater part of the mayfly season 

 that year was a failure owing to the weather, 

 yet between the sixth and twelfth of June 

 numerous two and three pounders were killed 

 I never like this word applied to trout : it 

 always sounds more applicable to spearing eels 

 or flat fish on spent gnat late in the evening. 



Other seasons, other conditions. The very 

 next year the * Fly is up ' telegram came at 

 Whitsuntide; and on the second of June the 

 thermometer touched 80 in the shade. In 

 making my way to the small hut by the river 

 side, the long grass, the air, and the water 

 were literally swarming with mayflies. They 

 were on one's bare neck and arms, almost in 

 one's mouth. They danced up and down in 

 thousands. Those that fluttered on to the water 

 were not taken by the fish, who possessed their 

 appetites in patience until between four and five 

 o'clock. 



I knew little or nothing of their various 

 stages or life history, but kept affixing and 

 changing * gladstones,' l grey-drakes,' and 

 * straddle bugs ' ; continually throwing over rises 

 in feverish excitement until it was dark, with 

 the only result of a pound grayling the first 

 I had ever seen. Other rods were more 

 successful of course. A trout of 3J Ibs. was 

 laid on the side bar at the inn where * no four- 

 penny beer served here ' secured comparative 

 privacy. I touched it, or rather worshipped it, 



