174 GOLDEN DAYS 



must sleep, or rest, wide-eyed — he has no 

 lids to close. 



So it was that a certain late autumn 

 morning saw us on our way to the upper 

 water, Jean Pierre with his old greenheart 

 rod while I carried the gaff. The village 

 was soon left behind, our lane winding past 

 swampy fields and through even more 

 muddy farmyards. Scents of baking 

 bread and crushed cider apples followed 

 us, and from each stone doorway the 

 children ran out to greet Jean Pierre. 

 Whole bevies of smiling, freckled little 

 girls, full-skirted and white - capped ; 

 small boys in precocious trousers and 

 broad-brimmed beaver hats ; and all 

 chattering louder than the magpies. 

 There were, in fact, scores of those birds 

 along our way hunting for worms and 

 walnuts and fat slugs, and talking as 

 they scratched. 



Now when you meet two magpies face- 

 to-face you say, ^^Une pie tantpis; deuce 

 pies tant mieux ;" but when you meet a 

 dozen, you cross yourself and bow nine 

 times. We left the children at the manoir 

 gates bobbing with deep obeisance. 



