96 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



DAYS ON A BUCKINGHAMSHIRE 

 LAKE. 



A NGLERS are not more blessed than other 

 folk in their ability to control the 

 weather, else, on the occasion of one of our 

 expeditions to the lake, it would not have 

 happened that hill and dale were obliterated by 

 a white fog; so dense as to blot out the very 

 hedge -row on either side of the line. There was 

 no heaven and no earth, and the train seemed 

 to bear us through illimitable space. When 

 things are at their worse, they begin to mend; 

 and so it was with the fog. Just as we had 

 decided (there were two of us) that our pro- 

 gramme must be altered to the extent of 

 taking the first train back to town, it lifted, 

 rolling away in billowy masses which lingered 

 here and there in the hollows like huge lumps 

 of cotton wool; and when we reached our 



