RANDOM MEMORIES 67 



this plump fellow of the withy-bed . What 

 bungling had been there ! That was a case 

 of nerves ; nerv^es, slack line, and luck. 

 It is not by heavy bags alone that we count 

 happy days at the river-side. There are 

 many minor incidents, trifling in them- 

 selves, which, when bunched together one 

 by one, will bloom again in fragrant retro- 

 spect. 



Yet we found no flavour in that moment 

 when we moved a step too far, flooding 

 our waders, cut an inch too short. Nor 

 in those weary hours when we trudged 

 home belated, nor in those tangled thickets, 

 trackless wastes, through which we 

 crawled, torn, tired, hungry, in the dark. 

 Strange that the poignancy of such distress 

 can pass, to leave only the keen savour of 

 fried eggs at supper-time. As for those 

 waders, their chill clamminess is gone ; 

 while our wood-fire crackles we keep only 

 the sweet warm sent of clover buds, the 

 ripple of the river as it passed a great flat 

 stone, a yellow bush of gorse, whereon 

 inverted waders hang, steaming in hot 

 sunshine. . . . 



It's early yet. Our fire still burns red, 



