82 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



lunch while fishing. At length, recollecting that 

 I was not here to guzzle (all was over with the 

 strawberries), but to catch a trout for my wife, 

 I lit tobacco and rose slowly to my feet. And 

 I perceived a duck's egg, pale green against the 

 darker grass no shell-less wind egg as honest 

 an effort as ever was dropped in haste and 

 collected at leisure. I was very much pleased 

 at finding this egg. My wife does not like duck's 

 eggs, but I do, and I get too few of them. I 

 ought to have more. They are a particularly 

 sustaining form of egg. I made a nest of sweet 

 hay for it in my creel, covered it up carefully, 

 and passed on, indescribably strengthened. I had 

 something in the creel. 



During the next three hours I made slow but 

 steady progress up river, cheering my soul with 

 thoughts of the morrow's breakfast, soothing her 

 with contemplation of the landscape when the 

 water became unbearable. The beeches were 

 exquisite, sweet scents were everywhere, cuckoos 

 hooted, fieldfares piped, the Cloud Artist was 

 wonderfully inspired that day. I met an inspector 

 of the conservancy, who asked to see my licence. 

 I indulged his fancy. His obvious disappointment 

 was alone worth leaving Willows to see, not to 

 mention the shilling I had paid in the local post 

 office for that piece of paper. Wishing me good 



