THE MAYFLIES 105 



that length of river, the best fish being 

 just under two pounds. Of course, we 

 failed to land the really big one, but then 

 (as many fishers know), that always seems 

 to happen. His loss must ever remain a 

 poignant memory. His weight we dare 

 not estimate aloud. At times Jean Pierre 

 and I still speak of him in whispers, my old 

 friend's arms stretched wide. He was a 

 great fish, and put up a royal fight. 

 Through all its length and strife our good 

 luck held uncannily, cutting for us a 

 pathway through the weeds, guiding the 

 line through countless snags of sunken 

 root and bramble. Only when the battle 

 was really won, the great fish lying in all his 

 glorious spotted length, dead-beat upon 

 the surface, only then did fate play us 

 false. That moment stands clear-cut. 

 The whole scene focussed in a small 

 Mayfly, rosy with sunlight, securely 

 imbedded in a great open jaw. I see the 

 lowering landing-net, Jean Pierre's strong 

 arm stretched out ; above, the arched rod 

 strung by the tense line, the taut gut, 

 frayed by the snags and perilously 

 whitened at its finer end, the sun-touched 



