182 GOLDEN DAYS 



gleaming. At the inn door we left, 

 below the sprig of mistletoe, our gaff and 

 rod along with two old muzzle-loaders we 

 discovered propped against the wall. 



Within was sparkling warmth and 

 hearty greetings — even the old cure was 

 there to see our catch and hear our doings 

 while he sipped his evening cup of tilleul. 

 The firelight played upon the dresser's 

 many coloured bottles, flickering among 

 the black beams overhead, where hung 

 the skins of lard and bunches of dried 

 herbs. Above the chimney's shelf the 

 blue smoke wreathed from numerous 

 dwarfed clay pipes that puffed and drew 

 contentedly, their owners pushing back 

 their chairs to give us place in the con- 

 vivial circle. There was indeed a large 

 company of chassem's round the fire that 

 night. The village baker who shoots for 

 pleasure, likewise his cousin the school- 

 master, and their friend the notary. Also 

 there were the professional poachers — 

 fascinating people, rough of speech, thrift- 

 less, their worn garments patched and 

 sewn with yellow twine, miserably poor, 

 eking a scanty existence with help of 



