A MAYFLY STORY. 2Q 



with a contumelious swirl of its tail. Then suddenly he turned 

 from the river and walked slowly and mournfully up the road. 

 Whether he remonstrated with himself for neglecting to test his 

 worn net, or whether he regretted his defiance of the sacred rule, 

 " artificial fly only to be used," we know not. 



But it was a sorrowful sight to see him pass, with lowered 

 head and shortened stride, through the avenue of immemorial elms 

 which led to the vicarage, what time the westering sun, ere it sank 

 to rest, was flooding the vale with a blaze of glory. Across his 

 shoulders hung an old creel, in his hand he held his fly-rod, whilst 

 under one arm was the long-handled net, its torn and tattered 

 meshes trailing along the road and gathering up the dust during the 

 dejected angler's slow progress up the hill. 



y. * # * * * 



Years have rolled by since we witnessed the sad home-going of 

 Parson Jones. Still does he haunt the same familiar spot. His 

 great, broad shoulders have rounded somewhat, and his hair has 

 turned snowy white. The creel has become more disreputable, and 

 the brand-new net old and worn. He fishes regularly even now, but 

 we can safely say that he has never again broken the sacred rule or 

 any other rule, for that matter of the club. 



And, for all we know to the contrary, the old trout still lurks 

 by the bridge. 



