120 LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES 



under course of recall there was assuredly ample excuse 

 for the formula. It soon transpired that the old- 

 fashioned barometer in the hall had been having a hard 

 time of it for many days. The master of the house 

 never passed from drawing- to dining-room without an 

 anxious tap. While the maids were doing their ante- 

 breakfast work I myself stole down and consulted it, 

 opened the front door, studied the sky, and noted the 

 drift of the clouds. I make my forecast at once if the 

 tokens are depressing. But I had ere this seen the 

 river. One of my bedroom windows gave direct out- 

 look upon a shrubbery, the most notable feature of 

 which was a maple of most brilliant tints, varying 

 from bright red to faint orange ; the other framed a 

 landscape picture of park, grassland, woods, and the 

 broad Tweed sweeping round towards the lower portion 

 of the water for which the angler cares. There was, 

 however, another view from the front of the house 

 a nearer reach where there was a mass of rough water, 

 and a certain tongue of shingle thrust out from the 

 further bank. For days and weeks these river marks 

 had warned the anxious inquirers that they might not 

 expect sport. The diminution of the tongue of land 

 on the one side, and a blur in the pure white of the 

 foam on the other, told the one-word tale " waxing." 



At the outset I was saved any anxiety by finding the 

 river dirty. Travelling through the night, I had turned 

 out at Berwick at half-past four in the morning in the 

 cold of a roaring gale that sent the clouds flying express 

 over the moon, and shrieked into every corner of the 

 deserted station. There had been heavy rain, and, in 

 short,'when day broke bleakly near upon six o'clock, 

 and I caught my first sight of the river from the early 

 train to Coldstream, my fate was evident. In good 

 order on Sunday afternoon, the Tweed was in flood 



