FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND. 21 



sere and drooping. We hear the calling of the moorhens, and at the farthest 

 extremity of the reed-patch a dusky coot is cautiously paddling out into the open. 

 Some wood-pigeons fly overhead. A flight of lapwings is discerned, and a small 

 flock or two of wild-fowl are making large circles high in the air. 



Hard by lies an old wherry. It has been heeled over by the boat -builder to 

 get at some faulty timbers. Beyond this characteristic craft of Broadland waters 

 is an old drainage mill, close by which, nestling among sojne willows, is the Fen- 

 man's cottage, whither we are wending our footsteps. A devious pathway, flanked 

 on either side by a narrow lane of water, leads us to it. Let us step in, for we are 

 not strangers here. The good old lady, whose deafness is to blame for not answer- 

 ing to our knock, bids us a cheery welcome. She has just spread the table against 

 "the old man's home-coming. 



' Jim Trett's out hinder reed-cuttin',' says his loving spouse, * but he'll sune 

 cum in, 'bor; sit ye down, for he's pretty reg'lar tu his males, 'bor, I kin tell ye !' 



Whilst the good woman is finishing her preparations for the noonday meal 

 we have a look round, taking stock of the room and its contents. The white- 

 washed walls are hung with several common prints of Scriptural or sporting sub- 

 jects, a tiny looking-glass overtops the mantle in company with a faded sampler 

 worked by the lady of the household when at school. A couple of cheerful linnets 

 hang on either side of the window in the tiniest of cages, and beneath them are 

 several geraniums struggling hard to brave the winter, and so far they have been 

 successful. An aged cat upon the elbow of the old man's chair sits blinking at the 

 fluttering birdies, thinking no doubt of times gone by when she was wont to hunt 

 their fellows. A few oddments in the shape of wearing apparel, lines, a bird-net, 

 and an ancient flint-lock gun, long past service, complete the furniture ' in sus- 

 pension,' with the exception of a quaint old timepiece that swings its bright brazen 

 pendulum as methodically and untiringly as it did when the good old folks were 

 novices at housekeeping fifty years ago. Three or four birch chairs, a side-table 

 overcrowded with household treasures, a dilapidated bureau that contains the rest, 

 with a sturdy table creaking beneath a plentiful repast, comprise the furniture 

 of below-stairs. Everything even the very brick floor is as clean as scouring- 

 soap and elbow-grease can make it. The old lady's snow-white cap encircles a 

 face upon which simplicity and good-nature are finely blended amid the wrinkles 

 of advancing years. 



We have no time for further survey ere a heavy footstep announces the 

 arrival of l Jem 'the fenman, who enters with scant ceremony. His boat lies 



