THE DUCK POND. 21 



his attention. They proclaim aloud the infor- 

 mation, " fish here.'* This was none of that 

 variety; could not claim even the most distant 

 relationship. It was insignificant in size, was 

 freely patronised by a goodly number of ducks 

 and geese at all times of the day, and the 

 water, decidedly pea-soupy in consistency and 

 colour, was the rendezvous of errant feathers 

 that made absurd voyages with every breath of 

 wind. Had it come to that? Were all my 

 dreams of rivers, with trout to be angled for 

 for the asking, to end in a pond wherein were 

 mysterious fish of unholy combination of perch, 

 roach, tench, and carp? " Expecting little?* 

 yes, but a duck pond ! 



Alas! it was that, or nothing; for in this 

 corner of Sussex rivers are not, and even 

 brooks, few. But the farmer was emphatic, 

 proudly emphatic about his fish. He was equally 

 so in his repudiation of fishing. " Too slow a 

 job " for him. This relieved my mind of a 

 certain suspicion that his statement might be the 

 outcome of an angler's fertile imagination. So 



