A SPRING FISHING 7 



was late when I left my friends and lighted 

 my candle. It was later still when I 

 snuggled down between the coarse Breton 

 sheets after a lingering and hopeful pre- 

 paration of rod and tackle. After all, it 

 is the anticipation in fishing which is more 

 than half the fun ; and those casts soaked 

 in the water jug overnight may create an 

 enthusiasm that will carry us to the end 

 of a dull day's fishing on the morrow. 



Next morning I stepped into a sun- 

 shiny world to find the village street 

 in contented bustle. The preparations for 

 the weekly market were in full swing. 

 Unharnessed carts with green hoods filled 

 the inn yard, and from the square came 

 sounds of beating mallets. Booths were 

 being erected. Hens, ducks, and farmers' 

 wives were all noisily loquacious. Our 

 conveyance was already at the door, dogs 

 barking at the horse's head, while Jean 

 Pierre was endeavouring to stow a sub- 

 stantial hamper under the front seat. 

 My old friend, Jean Pierre, is here simply 

 introduced as the quondam coachman of 

 Monsieur le Maire, but I like to re- 

 member him as the best of good fellovrs. 



