By Quiet Waters. 57 



still an inhabitant of the Norfolk Broads. It grows 

 rarer every year, and no doubt in time will be remem- 

 bered by old inhabitants with the crane and the 

 bittern, the ruff, and the avoset, whom science and 

 labour have driven from their haunts among the 

 marshes. 



But not alone for the naturalist and the sportsman 

 are there attractions among these lakes and rivers. 

 The eye of the artist dwells with delight on the 

 ancient boat-shed, with its rough and unhewn logs, 

 and its tiles weathered to every shade of red and 

 brown. 



Within lies the battered skeleton of some nameless 

 craft. A little yacht in the creek close by is nearly 

 hidden by tall sedges, and flags, and forget-me-nots. 



Behind is a group of ancient cottages about whose 

 gables vines cling lovingly as if with sheltering arms. 



Beyond, on the shore, an old fisherman is at work 

 tarring his house-boat, which lies helpless on its side 

 like some strange sea monster stranded by the retreat- 

 ing tide ; while his boiling tar seethes and smokes as 

 he grimly stirs it, until he looks like a figure out of 

 some weird incantation scene, and one half expects to 

 see the column of smoke grow denser and take shape, 

 and become an Afreet terrible of face and speech. 



Then as evening darkens you shorten sail and 

 prepare to make all snug for the night. 



You make the yacht fast to the bank in the dark, 

 helped a little by the moonlight, in a lonely spot far 



