MAY-FLIES IN MARCH.
4' DAYS of promise" are a common feature of the English
spring, when the rough winds sink and shift into the West, and the cold rain draws odours from the earth, and song from the birds, that remind us that winter is left behind. :Even then, the response of Nature is as hesitating and un- certain as the shifting moods of the March sky ; and the influences which appeal to man seem too subtle or too transient to change the winter habits of birds or beasts.
Far different is the result of the first really hot days -of early spring. When such weather as marked the end of last week comes in the middle of Mirch, and lasts for more than a day, it affects all wild animals like some beneficent spell. The physical contrast of summer and winter, marching, as it seems, hand in hand, is alone almost sufficient to account for the change. The night frosts are forgotten in the heated air, which dances over the withered grass ; yet the hot dust, scattered in the high-road, falls on ice-covered pools in the shadow of the fence; and the tortoise-shell butterflies, which 'flit from side to side of the lane, alight alternately on leaves and twigs powdered here with dust, there with crystals of hoar-frost.
The scene in the water-meadows at Itchen Abbas, above Winchester, during the midday heat of Saturday, was in strange contrast to that presented by the wintry waters in their setting of iron-bound earth and icicle-fringe during the great frosts at the opening of the year. Then the warm and life-giving river supported by its bounty thousands of strange and suffering birds, forced by hunger to leave their native haunts, and to seek food by the still unfrozen stream. Now the river and its valley are peopled, not by hungry strangers, but by all the wild creatures native to this chosen spot, not struggling for existence, bat enjoying the most complete form of happiness known to animal life,—warmth, quiet, security, and plenty. There is, perhaps, no district in the South of England where Nature has done so much for man as in the upper valley of the Itchen. The downs on either side shelter it from rough winds, the parks and villages at their feet form a continuous line of garden and spreading timber, and at this season of the year the visitor may walk for miles without ceasing to hear the cawing of the nesting rooks. Rooks are still "free selectors" in our old-world country, and their presence is a guarantee that the land is good enough not only for man, but for the most civi- Heed and critical of bird-kind. But the exuberant life of the valley is supported, not by the timbered parks or rich gardens under the hills, but by the great chalk-stream which, like the river of Egypt, winds through the centre of the land, and distributes its waters in a thousand swift and shining streams over the thirsty meadows on its banks. There, while the grass upon the bill-sides is still grey and sere, the bay already shows half a crop, and the wide green blades seem to suck up the moisture visibly from the streams which trickle through their waving stems. Each furrow is a flooded watercourse, not stagnant and foul, like the muddy drains of Eastern fens, but bright and swiftly flowing, a miniature of the great chalk. stream itself. Where the valley narrows, as at the bridge of Itchen Abbas, opposite the tall limes and avenues of Avington Park, the teeming life of the river and its vale may be viewed at close quarters. There, as the strange and sudden heat of the March sun burnt and increased, and the yellow coltsfoot flowers spread their petals wide, like arms and bosoms, to the rays, we watched the whole wild-life of the valley abandoii itself to the sense of exquisite happiness given by the first burst of light and heat in the year.
Those who would blame man for his interference with Nature, should at least give him credit for building the water-mill, with its dam and mill-stream, its foaming " tumbling of the bay," its weir and double bridges. The result at Itchen Abbas is to divide the river into a wide and dancing shallow, studded with sedgy islands above the mill, while below the two streams unite in a swift and rushing current. The islands and reaches above the bridge are the chosen home of wild-fowl ; the pool below a very paradise of monstrous Hampshire trout. Up till mid- day, the wild-fowl were still feeding, or moving from one part of the marsh to another. Two or three pairs of dab-chicks were busy diving just above the bridge, their plumage almost black, and looking, when they appeared as if by magic on the surface, as if clothed in velvet. Moor-hens and coots swam out from the sedges, the former in their best summer suits, with beaks red as sealing-wax, and neat white borders to their tails, crossing the river with that peculiar ducking and jerking motion of the head which distinguishes them from all other fowl upon the water. But at midday the sun asserted his dominion even over the water-fowl. For some time, the land-birds had been flying in from the hot and dusty hills, and settling in the water-meadows to drink, feed, and wash themselves. First, a pair of partridges came skimming over the road, and dropped among the dry flags on one of the islands in the stream. Then a flock of plover came floating down, one by one, just clearing the gables of the mill, and settled in the water-meadow beyond, where they first drank from a shallow rill, and then bathed elaborately. The flutter and splash of the black-and-white pinions was clearly visible, until their toilet was completed by running up and down on the bank with wings expanded to the sun and wind. Then the rooks came down to drink, one by one, and a pair of wood-pigeons followed ; but the birds had come, not merely to bathe or satisfy their thirst, but to stay. Plovers, pigeons, and rooks settled themselves down upon the grass, drooped their wings, stretched their feet, and lay basking in the sun. For rooks, the most industrious of birds, to abandon themselves to complete idleness and sleep at midday, is, so far as the writer's experience goes, a most unusual indulgence. Not till the day's work is over, and the low sun is lighting up the elm-tops, do the rooks allow them- selves to take a brief hour's gossip and idling, and then only before the young are hatched. As it was, one pair, who had been busy close by nest-building in the earlier hours, kept up appearances long after the rest had yielded to the drowsy influence of the sadden heat. The hen flew up to the nest and pretended to "sit," though the eggs were not yet laid ; while the cock-bird, who was basking on the grass below, started up at intervals, as some comrade flew overhead, awl pretended to be looking for food with a sham earnestness most comical to behold. Meantime, the water-fowl were fast leaving the river for the meadows, in order to enjoy to the full the genial warmth. An. old mallard stole quietly from one of the water-channels, and, after standing with his green head erect to reconnoitre for some minutes, he lay down on the grass, turned on his side, and slept as tran- quilly as a farmyard duck. One or two other mallards followed his example, each lying down on the highest point of the ridge between the water-cuts, like a hare in its form. Ls old gander, who with his mate was swimming in the mill-stream, took a walk in the road, and, finding the warmth to his liking, flew back in a hurry, and after some conversation, both climbed the bank and walked of in a vast hurry to the strawyard, where they also composed themselves to sleep. By one o'clock every one of the larger birds in. sight was dozing, and the writer so far followed their example as to move to the sunny side of the old brick bridge, and there, with the warm wall behind and the shining river in front, to watch the trout, and lunch. The sun was at its hottest when a whole flock of chaffinches came hawking down the river in eager pursuit of something which had not till then appeared upon the scene. We looked, and there over the surface of the water were hun- dreds of "May-flies," hatched by the sudden heat. Of course, they were not the green and gauzy winged fly of summer ; but for all that, they were true Ephemeridw, with long whisk tails and transparent wings. "March-browns," we believe, in the language of the fly-fisher. Poor creatures ! What with the chaffinches in the air above, and greedy trout in the water below, even their brief day was shortened. The trout were in eastacies. Before the appearance of the " May-fly " swarm, they had been leaping from the water in sheer exuberance at the fine weather. Now they settled down to the serious business of eating. Not ducklings and early peas, strawberries in February, ortolans in vine-leaves, or the first plovers' eggs, could move the epicure so deeply as the first early dish of "May-flies" touched the imaginations of the Hamp- shire trout. The fish lay in rows across the river, each in his favourite part of the stream, alert and eager, like sportsmen in a row of grouse-butts. Constant quiet rises—just a ripple, as the broad nose, followed by the back-fin, and a Triton curve of the tail broke the surface of the water—showed where • each struggling fly met its fate. The " May-flies" vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, and the dinner of the trout was over.
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