AUGUST IN BROADLAND. 81 



doing his best at an even-song. Moths had need ' ware ' fern-owl, for his capa- 

 cious mouth makes sepulchre for the largest of their race. 



' The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 

 With burring note ' 



The bats and owls are rousing themselves in the village steeple, they will be 

 out ere many a diurnal creature has tucked its head under wing, or curled up its 

 furry body for its nightly sleep. 



Big fish are rolling near the surface as if in play, and many a luckless fly is 

 snapped up as it floats across their vision. The distant boom of a fowling-piece 

 is now and again heard; the wild-fowler is lying in wait for 'flappers' (young 

 ducks), whose young lives trickle out with their blood; their first short flights 

 across their native Broad are often fatal to the species. 



Supper in the marshman's cottage we may not dare dwell upon; but the 

 enjoyable feast over, we turn into our sleeping-quarters, and leaving ourselves to 

 the care of Him f who neither slumbers nor sleeps,' are soon in the realms of Nod, 

 heedless of the bright pale harvest-moon shining through the latticed windows, 

 with the honeysuckle making strange patterns in the shadows that fall upon our 

 coverlet. 



It is an early-rising lark that is up before us in the morning. The martins, 

 twittering in their rude clay huts above our window, have scarcely peeped out to 

 welcome the sunrise ere we are doing the same. A jolly day's fishing is in pros- 

 pect, for the wind bids fair and the fish are well upon the feed. Then we have 

 some lady friends coming to Broadland to-day, and if we can but persuade them 

 not to be fidgeting about, and wanting to pull here and there, and sing and 

 laugh, our happiness will be complete. But ladies, for sure, are never so restless 

 as when upon the water ! They must gather bulrushes and reeds, and pluck the 

 yellow iris and those lovely waterlilies ! And they the ladies are irresistible. 

 And what man is there who dares disregard their imperative demands ? 



On our way to the village station to meet them we encounter an individual 

 whose ' doings ' interest us. He is a little old man of sixty summers, at a guess ; 

 there is a dash of something superior about him. We edge him into a chat, and 

 find him communicative. He hails from a neighbouring city: 'I'm from Norwich, 

 sir, I'm Norwich bred and born. A good old city that, with its forty churches 



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