A SPRING FISHING 17 



luncheon. It was a gay party, everyone 

 talking at once. T]ie miller himself had 

 lunched an hour earlier, but he must come 

 and sit beside us and sample the famous 

 burgundy. TIiq fowls, meanwhile, were 

 hunting for crumbs, and softly clucking 

 to each other around the table. Then 

 a convivial and very large pig joined the 

 party, till he was stampeded, grunting in 

 outraged dudgeon by our host's sabot. 

 Above me, enshrined in a niche in the 

 opposite wall, stood St. Herbot, an ancient 

 saint in faience, of forbidding counten- 

 ance. His china face seemed to take on 

 a fierce expression as through glazed eyes 

 he glowered at all the good dishes below. 

 But this was not our West country, at 

 home, where a fisher can lunch on an 

 austere hunk of bread and cheese. There 

 had been no substantial Devonshire break- 

 fast of hain and eggs, clotted cream, and 

 honey. The early dawn had only brought 

 one bowl of cafe au lait, so now a second 

 cut of the Camembert cheese became a 

 delicious necessity. After came strong 

 black coffee, borne to us on a tray by the 

 young goddess Yvonne. And what can I 



2 



