160 THE MAYFLY. 



held it straight out, and slowly ground him up 

 from the reel foot by foot, unable to put the 

 rod down and handline him. As he came 

 near, all I could see was a large rush, apparently 

 on the fish's back, with both fish and rush 

 athwart the stream. 



It was the largest grayling I have seen, 

 hooked foul right through the spines of its 

 great dorsal fin. It was so completely done 

 up that, when released, it floated away round 

 the bend with only a gasping movement. 



The spring-balance I had in my bag only 

 drew out to two pounds and it was obvious 

 cruelty to impale the wretched fish on so useless 

 a gauge as this. Had this grayling been taken 

 in season, he should certainly have been 

 mounted, for only once have I seen his equal, 

 in a glass case, caught by a Southampton 

 angler, and labelled as an ounce under four 

 pounds. 



On rivers where one can secure a piece of 

 water to oneself after tea time towards the end 

 of the mayfly season, and in the exact spot 

 where the memories of bygone Junes recreate 

 the sport and successes of previous years, the 

 fascination of again watching the water causes 

 one to think how little human nature, and 

 human instincts, have changed during the past 

 few thousand years. 



How old Horace would have loved fly fishing : 

 that is if trout abound in the Bandusian stream, 

 as they do in the Bidassoa. How he would 



