152 LAST 



mountain wind, clinging to the silvered 

 head, as if with an endearing tenacity; 

 and, not the least, the tattered, faded 

 remnants of the once bravely coloured 

 flies which encircled it, lent a kindly 

 pathos to the closing pages of the good 

 old angler's life. 



From the dry banks, where the fear- 

 less rabbits played, to the far horizon be- 

 yond the wide estuary the shallow pools 

 that were left by the receding tide re- 

 flected the fiery sky, and the dark forms 

 of curlew moved restlessly across the 

 lane of light. The broad leaves of holly- 

 hocks brushed against the white walls of 

 the cottage as the tall stalks swayed in 

 the breeze that came from the sea, and 

 the gray reeds whispered a low response 

 as they surged in fleeting harmonies of 

 sombre colour across the dreary marsh- 

 lands. 



Peacefully "Old Peter" sat and 

 watched those ever-changing lights in 



