THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 227 



with the thrashing of a wheat-rick I found an Eton 

 boy there, armed with a saloon pistol, and attended by 

 a retriever, on the watch for rats. One he had shot as 

 it dived about in its endeavours to escape through an 

 adjoining pool. I was called away to inspect the young 

 bulls, which were starting for their promenade, and my 

 attention was asked to the back of one, a favourite. It 

 was literally one mass of inflamed bumps. I had his 

 back fomented at once, and the herdsman then extracted 

 over thirty huge gad-fly grubs from the poor creature's 

 hide. No wonder he was ticklish to handle. Some of 

 them had festered. The other calves seem all to have 

 escaped. I don't know whether the fly has a taste for 

 pedigree, for this was out-and-out the most transcen- 

 dently ancestral of the lot. From the window, I have 

 just watched through a glass the drawing of the salmon- 

 nets below — for this turn without fruit. The river is 

 so turbid, however, that it is probable a large catch may 

 blunder into the meshes before night. I saw a man 

 catch a fine fellow out in a coracle one day lately when 

 the south wind blew softly. He used only a short rod, 

 about the length of two pea-sticks, to the handle of which 

 was attached an inflated bladder. He kept paddling 

 himself leisurely about towards the tail of a strong 

 current, and casting across it until a fish struck. He 

 then threw the rod into the water, and it was drawn 

 down by the victim, ever and anon reappearing, when 

 the man paddled up to it and played it so long as he 

 dare, throwing it off again as the strain became danger- 

 ously great. Thus, after a while, a fine fifteen-pound 

 fish was made to drown himself, and was then drawn up 

 in triumph upon a strip of sand. We were all down to 

 look on. There was very little Latin done that day. 



Q 2 



