BRETON TROUT STREAMS 45 



up his place, but he helped the saints to 

 tidy up before he left. 



At Noyal not so many years ago a 

 drunken peasant lay in his stable sleeping 

 while his two oxen munched their evening 

 meal. He was awakened by the voices 

 of his oxen as they talked. (It is Jean 

 Pierre's story, this, not mine.) One ox 

 remarked : " What shall we do to- 

 morrow ?" " We shall bear our master 

 to his grave," replied the other. The 

 drunken peasant staggered to his feet. 

 " You lie, cursed brute !" he screamed, 

 raising his heavy axe. But " vous savez^ 

 that peasant was so very drunk and very 

 wroth, he missed the ox and killed himself, 

 . . . enfin. ..." 



If anyone should consider the dullness 

 of writing a fishing gazetteer, he will 

 surely condone these irrelevant deviations 

 amongst goats and oxen. Indeed, it is 

 an impossible task to appraise with any 

 semblance of correct comparison these 

 varied Breton waters. On looking back 

 on what I have written, I realise that 

 the desire not to say too much has led 

 possibly to the saying of too little — to a 



