For it's my delight of a likely night,
In the season of the year."
The chorus was taken up by the other boys with shouts of laughter, and
the keeper turned away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mischief. The
boys thought no more of the matter.
But now came on the May-fly season; the soft, hazy summer weather lay
sleepily along the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green and gray
flies flickered with their graceful, lazy up-and-down flight over
the reeds and the water and the meadows, in myriads upon myriads.
The May-flies must surely be the lotus-eaters of the ephemerae--the
happiest, laziest, carelessest fly that dances and dreams out his few
hours of sunshiny life by English rivers.
Every little pitiful, coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for
the flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the
gluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge
the poor May-flies.
So one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod,
started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small
success--not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank,
he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite
side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep
here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off
hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the
Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and
in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of
willows.
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