AN AUTUMN FISHING 161 



memories of Jean Pierre, and so it is that 

 when we turn to other days, to Southern 

 Brittany and its salmon fishing, one calls 

 to mind a certain old-world garden 

 screened on three sides by grey stone walls, 

 its fourth is rank -grown lawn that fronts 

 a deep slow-moving river. Along the 

 bank you'll find a stone seat backed by a 

 willow -tree, and here Jean Pierre would 

 sit for hours concocting lures or splicing 

 broken rod-tops. 



Such a garden this — sequestered in 

 drowsy peace and yet not too remote. 

 For though the grey walls keep watch on 

 its seclusion they leave in view the village 

 roof-tops, capped by the old church 

 belfry. 



Toward the broad paved walk you'll 

 likely meet a strutting peacock trailing 

 a gorgeous tail. Indeed, there are two of 

 them, along with three peahens. Appar- 

 ently, these do not fuss on matrimonial 

 questions, considering only the poise of 

 stateliness and majesty, together with 

 colour-harmonies in melting greens and 

 blues. They are, moreover, direct descen- 

 dants of those who once walked in pride 



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