24 



FEBRUARY IN SROADLAND. 



fro over the dark waters, picking up here and there some defunct fish. Two are 

 quarrelling over a dead eel that the recent frosts have killed. A Sclavonian grebe 

 is dipping here and there in the now rippling waters, for the winds are stirring 

 and sending up the promise of more rain. A flock of widgeon wheel round and 

 round overhead, and finally descend, dashing themselves upon the surface with the 

 impetuosity peculiar to the race. But time is going, and great rain-drops are 

 making concentric circles upon the Broad. We row for the fenman's cottage, 

 arriving at the mooring-stage simultaneously with the good man himself. A 

 flock of lapwings are beating up against the wind within gunshot. The old man 

 snatches up his muzzle-loader, which lies in the boat, and brings down a trio of 

 the unfortunate plovers. 



After another cup of tea and another interesting chat, we take our leave, 

 hoping to revisit Broadland in the blustering month of March. 



