EPIIEMERIME I don't suppose the word ephemeral produces quite the
same association of thoughts for everyone that it does for me. Ephemeral might be the yellow splash of sunlight suddenly illuminating a distant hill, or even some sound with nostalgic memory attaching; but if there is such a thing as a down-to-earth fly-fisher- man, the truly ephemeral thing is the life of the Ephemerides, which includes a morsel known as the May-fly (hatching in June) and that other weapon in the angler's armoury, the March Brown. These creatures have an existence with drama in it. They emerge to shuffle off the ugliness of larval life and sail into the sun for a final hour or so of life. When the May-fly is up, telegrams are sent off from the banks of chalk streams and fabulous deals in the City simply fall through. One must run to see a rain- bow and wait upon the May-fly, even if the object is not to admire it. Among the earliest of the Ephemeriche is the March Brown. No telegrams are sent as it hatches but it is, for me, a more wonderful sight. It hatched while I was at the water-side this week; a beautiful thing, delicate of wing and body, dancing for its own delight in the half-hour or so of sunlight and warmth that produced the miracle. One feels that one must write to the papers about it for it is as great a thrill as the arrival of the cuckoo.
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