182 The Fishing Day. 



winds up a happy day, and it is not until the sun, fast nearing 

 the western horizon, "proclaims it high time to get home," that we 

 leave off. 



We unscrew our rods, pack up our tackle, and turn out the fish 

 on the grass for inspection. We have had a very fair day's sport : 

 a dozen of the perch will average one pound each, and several from 

 a half to three-quarters of a pound j three or four heavy chub, and 

 a good-sized pike or two make up the catch ; and each one, as he 

 packs up his creel, feels satisfied with its contents. 



After a parting glass of ale, just to keep the nigl^t air out, and a 

 hearty good-night from the jovial miller, we start for home. The 

 deep crimson streaks across the western sky mark a glorious sunset, 

 and the pale moon has already begun to cast a silvery light over the 

 tranquil stream which, but an hour ago, seemed almost alive with 

 fish rising at the evening flies, dancing up and down over its surface. 

 The bat flies so close by us, that we can distinctly hear his sharp 

 snap as he catches at a gnat. The last waggon has left the meadow 

 with its load ; and the silence of the evening is broken by the voices 

 of the haymakers, dying away in the distance as they slowly follow 

 it home. 



Our homeward walk lies through the meadows, now almost ob- 

 scured by the heavy mist, which, rising up from the river, shuts the 

 landscape from the view. Our steps may not be so pliant as they 

 were in the morning, but our hearts are as light ; and although our 

 creels are well filled, no one feels their burthen. The lonely heron, 

 startled by our laugh, rises from the river side, and as he wings his 

 measured flight to the old heronry in a distant park, the air resounds 

 to his hoarse, discordant scream j and the pewit, as it wheels in airy 

 rings over the fallow to our left, ' ( wakes the echoes with unweary- 

 ing cries." 



We soon reach the village, guided by the twinkling lights in the 

 cottage windows, which shine like beacons to guide the weary tra- 

 veller on his homeward track. We enter our old friend's gate, and, 

 having doffed our creels in the hall, are soon in his snug little par- 

 lour, where supper is awaiting us. When this is finished, the old 



