CHAPTER VI. 



A May-fly Story. 



""*H river whispered sweetly in its meanderings between 

 grassy banks. Tumultuously it raced past a little white- 

 washed cottage, whose porch was gay with roses, whilst at a spot 

 whither the cattle came to water the surface was placid in the 

 extreme. Again it hurried on to dash and foam over weirs, below 

 which it glided gently away. Next it wended dreamily by shady 

 woods, and farther on it made merry music over the shallows. And 

 in silent, slumberous stretches it halted, as if anxious to delay its 

 exit from the lovely vale. Luxuriant meadows and pasture-lands' 

 the latter dotted with idly-grazing cattle, met the view of those who 

 gazed upon the slopes of the wooded hills which enclosed the 

 glorious vale. Down where the river murmured, the roadway 

 crossed the water by a picturesque stone bridge and wound up the 

 hill through an avenue of ancient elms. And, to put a finishing 

 touch to the delightful scene, a dainty village, with its time-worn 

 church and vicarage, nestled amongst some grand old trees. 



A small, select club rented the fishing for several miles. Its 

 few members were of the " dry-fly school," and the most sacred of 

 its rules, or commandments, read : " Artificial fly only to be used." 



It was charming to stand on the bridge towards the close of 

 the day and to watch the river dimpled by the rings of rising trout. 



A short distance upstream dwelt a monstrous fish, unknown to 

 the idlers on the bridge, for it seldom rose. During its unmeasured 

 lifetime it had taken a heavy toll of flies, had smashed many 

 tackles, and had caused more than one angler to utter strange 

 phrases, composed chiefly of words not to be found in the dictionary. 



