THE MAYFLY. 25 



have not been removed if their presence suits the surround- 

 ings. The consequence of this is that Mowbray Park 

 furnishes a perfect example of what Nature, assisted but 

 not stamped out by Art, can do. 



The lake is not large, but it is deep, and graced by 

 numerous trees down to the water-edge along seven-eighths 

 of its margin. Sir Melton Mowbray, introducing me to the 

 water, wishes me luck, places a gardener's boy at my dis- 

 posal, and goes back to his Blue-books. The only way of 

 fishing the lake is from a boat, and boat there is none. 

 Tliere is instead an overgrown square washing-tub, used by the 

 boy for fetching duck's eggs from a little island in the centre. 

 You do not dare to stand upright in this remarkable speci- 

 men of naval architecture, but you may sit on a rail nailed 

 across, and must balance yourself to a hair if you would 

 avoid a capsize. Having procured a pole, I punt to the end 

 from which the wind comes, and it is fortunate that it blows 

 steadily, and not too strongly. Then I deliver myself and 

 fortunes to the will of the breezes. 



Though I have been apprised that the Mayfly is out in 

 unheard-of quantities, I can see none. Smaller insects are 

 on the wing, but in spite of the rushes around the edges, 

 and a thickly wooded ravine through which a tributary brook 

 runs' into the lake, the drakes are conspicuous by their 

 absence. It is a game of patience, then, in which I have to 

 engage. I am aware that the Mayfly is quite as capricious 

 as the rest of the insect creation, and disappears suddenly 

 and mysteriously, without any apparent cause. In angling, 

 too, it is safe never to take anything for granted. At the 

 same time it is with just a modicum of faith that I tie on a 

 most elegantly made fly of medium size. The fish, I find. 



