88 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



sluice, I sit and watch the red-tipped float drift 

 nearer and nearer to the patch of yellow water- 

 lilies growing close inshore. A leaf stays its 

 progress, then, guided by some invisible power, 

 it moves again, and is drawn beneath the 

 surface. I feel the hurry-scurry of a startled 

 resistance, the tense line zig-zags sharply 

 amidst the floating -pads, and, anon, another 

 roach lies glistening on the grass. 



From out the bed of rushes two black 

 beady eyes regard the squeezing of a fresh 

 piece of paste on the hook with marked dis- 

 trust. Then the grating of sharp teeth at 

 work on a quivering blade is renewed. A 

 splash, and the water-rat departs on another 

 of his hurried excursions by the side of the 

 bank. We have become good friends, this 

 brown furry vole and I, and his reappearance 

 from time to time brings a curious sense of 

 companionship in a solitude that I am conscious 

 of, yet loth to admit. Scarce have the diverg- 

 ing ripples in the wake of the swimmer died 

 away, when the net is again brought into use. 



