A SPRING FISHING 9 



ourselves amongst stunted oaks, grey 

 rocks, and heather- clad moors, with open 

 country stretching away on either side. 

 We were on the Breton landes, which 

 still hold the fey spirit of ancient 

 Cornouaille. A tract of solitude, under 

 low skies, dotted here and there with 

 Druid stones, which, like the graves of 

 the martyrs in the grey Galway land, 

 stand cold and lonely in infinite sadness. 

 But below us the sun was shining, and 

 friendly sounds, very thin yet distinct, rose 

 from the valley in the morning air. A 

 peasant was singing from somewhere down 

 below, and then came the intermittent 

 bleating of sheep mingling with the faint 

 tinkling of their bells. And there was 

 the river ! It lay well down in the midst 

 of orchards and green fields, interspersed 

 with patches of foliage and broken unculti- 

 vated land. 



We pulled up at the bridge, for here 

 we would start fishing. Jean Pierre was 

 to take the horse and cart with our hamper 

 by a grass track to the mill, some distance 

 farther down the valley. 



I know, and you know, the delight of 



