lunch while fishing. At length, recollecting that I was not here to guzzle (all was over with the strawberries), but to catch a trout for my wife, I lit tobacco and rose slowly to my feet. And I perceived a duck's egg, pale green against the darker grass—no shell-less wind egg—as honest an effort as ever was dropped in haste and collected at leisure. I was very much pleased at finding this egg. My wife does not like duck's eggs, but I do, and I get too few of them. I ought to have more. They are a particularly sustaining form of egg, I made a nest of sweet hay for it in my creel, covered it up carefully, and passed on, indescribably strengthened. I had something in the creel.
During the next three hours I made slow but steady progress up river, cheering my soul with thoughts of the morrow's breakfast, soothing her with contemplation of the landscape when the water became unbearable. The beeches were exquisite, sweet scents were everywhere, cuckoos hooted, fieldfares piped, the Cloud Artist was wonderfully inspired that day. I met an inspector of the conservancy, who asked to see my licence. I indulged his fancy. His obvious disappointment was alone worth leaving Willows to see, not to mention the shilling I had paid in the local post office for that piece of paper. Wishing me good
