le,
occurrence which took place five years ago. Foolishly responding to the
entreaties of our enthusiastic friend the keeper, we actually did ask
five people to fish one "Durby day." As luck would have it they all
came; but unfortunately a neighbouring squire, who owns part of the
water, but who seldom turns up to fish, also chose that day, and with
him came his son. Seven was bad enough in all conscience, but imagine my
feelings when a waggonette drove up, full of _undergraduates from
Oxford_: my brother, who was one of the undergraduates, had brought them
down on the chance, and without any warning. Of course they all wanted
to fish, though for the most part they were quite innocent of the art of
throwing a fly. Result: ten or a dozen fisherman, all in each other's
way; every rising fish in the brook frightened out of its wits; and very
little sport. The total catch for the day was only thirty trout, or
exactly what three rods ought to have caught.

These were the sort of remarks one had to put up with: "I say, old
chap, there's a d----d fellow in a mackintosh suit up stream; he's
bagged my water"; or, "Who is that idiot who has been flogging away all
the afternoon in one place? Does he think he's beating carpets, or is he
an escaped lunatic from Hanwell?"

The whole thing was too absurd; it was like a fishing competition on the
Thames at Twickenham.

Since this never-to-be-forgotten day I have come to the conclusion that
to have too few anglers is better than too many; also, alas! that it is
quite useless to ask your friends to come unless they are accomplished
fishermen. It takes years of practice to learn the art of catching
south-country trout in these days, when every fish knows as well as we
do the difference between the real fly and the artificial. One might as
well ask a lot of schoolboys to a big "shoot," as issue indiscriminate
invitations to fish.

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 bac