There! did you see that fish rise at him? He has escaped the hungry trout, and has reached a blade of grass, where he will probably rest for some hours. But give me my rod; perhaps the same trout will rise at my artificial fly. There! that throw was exactly over the spot. No; he won't have it. I'll try again and again. No. Objects to _sauce piquante_, I suppose. Well, I will tempt him again in an hour's time or so. The water is smooth here, and free from rapids; let us lie down on the grass and see the birth of _Ephemera_--for that is the May-fly's proper name. Here comes something floating down. It is within the reach of my hand, so I will secure it. What is it? As I thought. Ephemera is throwing off its swaddling clothes. See how it twirls and twists itself about. Now it is free; and the strange-looking worm has changed into a beautiful fly. But there is yet one other operation to go through ere it assumes its final and complete form; you see at present it is a heavy flier, for the wings are scarcely dry, and the muscles as yet unequal to great exertion; so in their present imperfect form they are constantly dropping for a second or two in the water, and are often sucked down the throat of some roach, trout, or other fish on the look-out. You should remember that the _Ephemera_, or May-fly, in this its _sub-imago_, or imperfect winged state, represents the "green drake" of the angler. What have I here on this blade of grass? Do you see? What is the shadowy form that lifelessly clings to it? It is a delicate membrane, thin and light; see, I blow it away. You saw the split in the back, through which the former tenant left the abode. It is the cast-off skin of the green drake, now metamorphosed into a creature more active than harlequin or columbine, the male into a dark brown insect, with gauze-like wings, the female into a beautiful creature, with body marbled white and brown, and able to fly well and strongly, now high in the air, now sailing along close to the surface of the water, ever and anon dipping gently into it for the purpose of laying her eggs. The small oval eggs sink down to the bottom, and attach themselves to the weeds and stones that are found there. The flight of the male Ephemera is different; it is the males that practise together that peculiar up-and-down dance, with heads erect and bodies curving prettily upwards; of course, you can understand how countless multitudes fall victims to fish and bird, for dainty morsels they are. These flies, though voracious feeders both in the larval and nymphal state, never eat at all after they have assumed their perfect form. Indeed, they have no true mouth, only an imperfect or rudimentary one; and you would never find a particle of food in their stomachs, which are always more or less full of air-bubbles, which, no doubt, assist in buoying up the insect, and thus save the expenditure of muscular power. I'll catch one of those dancing males, and press him quickly in the middle.