It is a prochronism to talk of the May-fly; for, as a matter of fact, the first ten days of June usually constitute the may-fly season.  Of late years the rise has been earlier and more scanty than of yore.  There are always several days, however, during the rise when all the biggest fish in the brook come out from their homes beneath the willows, take up a favourable place in mid stream, and quietly suck down fly after fly until they are absolutely stuffed.  To have fished on one of these days in any well-stocked south-country brook is something to look back upon for many a long day.  In a reach of water not exceeding one hundred yards in length there will be fish enough to occupy you throughout the day.  You may catch seven or eight brace of trout, none of which are under a pound in weight, where you did not believe any large ones existed.  The fact is, the larger fish of a trout stream are more like rats in their habits than anything else; they stow themselves away in holes in the bank and all sorts of inconceivable places, and are as invisible by day as the otter itself.

That man derives the greatest enjoyment from this annual carnival among the trout who has been tied to London all through May, sweltering in a stuffy office and longing for the country.  Though his sympathies are bound up heart and soul in country pursuits, he has elected to “live laborious days” in the busy haunts of men.  He does it, though he hates it; for he has sufficient insight to know that self-denial in some form or other is the inevitable destiny of mortal man:  sooner or later it has to be undergone by all, whether we like it or not

     “Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit
      Ab dis plura feret”

Horace never wrote anything truer than that, though we are not to suppose that the second line will necessarily come true in this life.

We will imagine that our friend is a briefless barrister, but a fine, all-round sportsman; a crack batsman, perhaps, at Eton and Oxford, or one of whom it might be said: 

     “Give me the man to whom nought comes amiss,
      One horse or another, that country or this—­
      Who through falls and bad starts undauntedly still
      Rides up to the motto, ‘Be with them I will.’”

There may be good sportsmen enough enjoying life throughout the country villages of Merrie England, but in my humble opinion the best sportsmen must be sought in stifling offices in London, or serving “their country and their Queen” under the burning sun of a far country, or maybe in the reeking atmosphere of the East End, or as missionaries in that howling wilderness the inhospitable land of “the heathen Chinee.”

Sitting in his dusty chambers, poring over grimy books and legal manuscripts, our “briefless” friend receives a telegram which he has been expecting rather anxiously the last few days.  As brief as he is “briefless,” it brings a flush to his cheek which has not been seen there since that great run with the hounds last Christmas holidays.  “The fly is up; come at once.”  These are the magic words; and no time is lost in responding to the invitation, for, as prearranged, he is to start for Gloucestershire directly the wire arrives.