28 THE SONG OF THE REEL. 



The brilliant sunlight of one of the first few days of June was 

 softening into its evening mellowness. The meadows were golden 

 with buttercups, and Mayflies fluttered over bank and river. 

 Down the road came the picturesque figure of Parson Jones, his 

 day's work clone, his briar pipe between his teeth, and the same 

 happy smile upon his face. Reaching the water's edge he strolled 

 leisurely upstream. Suddenly he stopped. Surely the old trout 

 had risen ! He watched intently. Surely that was the old trout 

 which had quietly taken a luscious-looking Mayfly ! 



Without further ado, Parson Jones measured the distance with 

 a few false casts. Then the line went out again, and the artificial 

 " May " alighted gently upon the stream. There was, however, no 

 reply, nor was there to a second presentation. The Parson reeled 

 in his line and glanced keenly around, muttering the while the 

 words, " Artificial fly only to be used." 



Satisfying himself that no eyes were upon him there were no 

 idlers on the bridge to-night the reverend gentleman quickly pro- 

 duced a hook from his tackle- book and attached it to his cast. To 

 capture in his hat one of the Mayflies which were dancing in the 

 air was but the work of a moment, as was likewise the impaling of 

 it upon the hook. Then the Vicar crept cautiously into the shelter 

 of a bush, near to which the old trout had risen. 



The faint evening breeze stirred the foliage of the weeping wil- 

 lows, and every now and then sent tiny ripples scudding across the 

 surface of the water. Aided by this favouring breeze, and by means 

 of a little careful manipulation, the mounted natural fly was soon 

 fluttering upon the stream. It was immediately taken by the old 

 trout 



Ten minutes later the fish was brought towards the landing- 

 net. But the end was not then. At length the net lifted the six 

 pounds odd of lusty trout-flesh from the water : but, alas ! it had 

 landed one fish too many. Its rotten meshes gave way ; there was 

 a snap of gut, and back into its native element went the ancient fish. 



For quite one minute Parson Jones stood like a graven image, 

 gazing fixedly at the spot whence the trout had disappeared 



