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Mr. Hammond enjoys among his field companions the 
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with others. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Hunting Without a Gun. 
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Price, $2.00. 
This is a collection of papers on different themes con- 
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FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 
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Rowland E. Robinson. ith 
by Rachael Robinson. 
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The Book of the Boone and Crockett Club. 
Theodore Roosevelt and George Bird Grinnell. 
trated. Cloth, 345 pages. Price, $2.50. 
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 
Editors: 
Illus- 



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MAY FLY ON THE ARROW. 
AumostT all the anglers one meets, here in 
Herefordshire, at any rate, shake their heads 
sadly at this time of year, and say that the May- 
fly fishing is a fraud, says S. Cornish Watkins 
in the County Gentleman. Dear old country 
parsons, who are as well known by the river- 
side as the sandpipers and water-ouzels, look 
back mournfully to the summers of thirty years 
ago and tell how the stretch of flat water above 
the weir used to boil with rising trout, and the 
veriest tyro was certain of a full creel on any 
day in the first week of June. Now the trout 
have grown too sophisticated; the May-fly does 
not come on as it ought to do, and, with a 
radical government in office, the prospect before 
this poor, unhappy country is a gloomy one 
indeed. One is irresistibly reminded on such 
occasions of Addison’s_ fellow-traveler, the 
Tory fox-hunter, and his remark that there had 
been no good weather in England since the 
Revolution, for, year after year, as the cuckoo’s 
voice begins to break and the bluebell carpet 
to fade away in the pheasant covert, angler after 
angler tells the same sad tale of the vanished 
glory of May-fly time. 
And yet, perhaps things are not quite so bad 
as they seem. At any rate, one notices that all 
these dear old gentlemen furbish up their rods 
and reels and slip away early from the Bishop’s 
visitation to foregather in the tackle shpps as 
soon as the month of May draws near its close, 
while the post office must reap quite a con- 
siderable increase of revenue from letters written 
to the lords of the land asking for a day on 
the water. If May-fly fishing has become a 
snare and a disappointment, it is a disappoint- 
ment that we court, year by year, with singular 
unanimity. 
The truth is, of course, that fishing, like 
cricket, is a game Of glorious uncertainty, and 
no’ one can prophesy with any degree of ac- 
curacy what either trout or May-fly will be do- 
ing on.any given day. Sometimes, when all the 
conditions look favorable, not a dimple will 
break the surface “so hideously serene.” Some- 
times the trout will not come to the May-fly, 
and sometimes the May-fly will not come to the 
trout. It is all, in fact, wm grand peut-étre, and 
therein lies nine-tenths of its charm, for now 
and then, for a blissful hour or two, the fly 
really comes on, and the big fish, forgetting 
their inherited cunning and acquired caution, 
come out from under the alder roots and go 
clean daft. 
Such a day was June 4 on a certain stretch of 
water on the Herefordshire Arrow, which, for 
the peace of mind of the owner, had better not 
be too closely particularized. 
It did not look too promising a morning, as 
it followed a furious gale of wind, and the glass 
was still sinking, but between the shadows there 
were glimpses of sunshine, and the color of the 
water was that of the weakest weak tea—just 
what Arrow water should be, and all too 
seldom is. 
In the streams a few small trout were feeding; 
but it was upon the yellow dun—there was not 
a May-fly to be seen. Above the first weir, 
where an oak wood shelters the oppos:te bank, 
one or two of the merry green drakes were to 
be seen floating slowly on the flat water, but 
they went by disregarded. Just occasionally.a 
splash under the overhanging brambles told that 
there were fish in the river, but neither wet-fly 
nor dry nor “tinsel wet and dry” would tempt 
them forth. 
At last one more bold than his fellows broke 
the charm, and surely, one thought, here must 
be the patriarch of all the trout in the Arrow, 
so persistently did he dive and resist all gentle 
nersuasion. The rod bent double with the strain 
of keeping him out of the alder roots, the line 
cut the water like a knife, he rushed up 
stream and down, but at last he drew near the 
fatal net, and the mystery was solved. He was 
only a litle fellow, of less than half a pound, 
but he was foul-hooked just above the tail. No 
wonder he pulled so hard, and made his captor 
feel like the angler in Leech’s picture, “who 
had gotten haud of the kingdom of auld Scot- 
land” instead of a salmon. 
Reach after reach of beautiful water was 
as 



