MARCH GREY-FACE 9 



with a rush through swaying blossoms a second vole 

 is upon him. There is a brief tussle, then flight, and 

 a fresh vole is sitting on the stump, his rival swimming 

 straight across to us. But the snowdrop-stealer's 

 eyes are sharp, and a yard from the bank he dives 

 with a loud splash that makes the stump vacant. 



And now fishing hours are over. Western gates 

 open in the dome of cloud, and the sun prepares to 

 give a pale golden good-night. Water-hens are 

 running far out in the field, and at times startling 

 us with loud, liquid crow, close at hand. A string 

 of rooks passes over on the way to roost, and seven 

 dots farther off, flying in mathematical V, proclaim 

 themselves wild duck. They are black against a 

 pinkish yellow, which the river answers with a mellow 

 gleam like that of half-opened hawthorn buds. And 

 what of our fishing? It has even been a more 

 complete blank than the fox-hunting, for we have 

 not had a single run. Next week the big pike goes 

 under the aegis of the Mundella Act. May he enjoy 

 the coming summer, and keep appointment another 

 day! 



