90 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



Conjecture is busy with the identity of 

 the destroyer as the keeper crosses the stile 

 and comes upon the wreckagfe. " One of 

 them Jacks," is his verdict. It may be, but 

 a roach fails to move him again, and the dis- 

 turbance has caused both perch and roach to 

 flee in terror. 



As he turns to go, a rustling movement 

 in the rushes arrests the keeper's attention. A 

 searching glance towards the spot, and the gun 

 comes to his shoulder. An odd feeling of 

 regret possesses me, for, intuitively, I know 

 the tragedy impending. Then the shot rings 

 out and dies echoing away in the distance. 



******* 



The rookery is long since quiet and all is 

 still. Only a bat hawks to and fro, as I collect 

 the spoils and mount the stile. 



Behind me, on the mill pond, the shadows 

 of night are gathering over a little furry body 

 with a crimson stain on its upturned breast. 



