Winter at Hazelbarn. 163 



ourselves a nuisance to the ladies by wrangling about flights, 

 and dead gorges, swivels and traces, "across the walnuts and 

 the wine," and never were friends more in danger of falling- 

 out than were we on that day of peace and goodwill. The 

 curate brought down an old college chum one January for a 

 day's fishing ; he knew as much about the gentle craft as 

 any living creature, and he began to tell us, in the bosom of 

 our respective families too, that we were not worthy of the 

 name of sportsmen, if we essayed any method but spinning, 

 or snap-fishing with live bait. Poor Vernon's spirit was 

 disquieted within him. 



Next day we put our theories to the test. Our severe 

 mentor certainly spun the water like an artist, yet caught 

 nothing but an inexperienced jack of two pounds. The 

 curate took three fish, of about fifteen pounds total, with his 

 everlasting double hook threaded under the skin of a lively 

 roach. Sticking perseveringly to my dead gorge, working it 

 quietly first close under the bank, and then by gradations 

 across the river, I killed seven fish that weighed thirty-five 

 pounds odd. The mentor did not like it ; but the argument 

 was over thenceforth. 



Ha ! there is the postman's horn. The light of his dog- 

 cart lamp flashes like a will-o'-the-wisp, as he descends 

 the hill. He will call first at the village, and then come on 

 to me by way of the parsonage. Unfortunately, I must bring 

 my gossip to an abrupt termination, conscious that having 

 dallied with my subject, from sheer love of it, I have not 

 half described how we pass the winter at Hazelbarn. There 

 is no help for it ; this manuscript must be delivered to the 

 postman at the garden gate, in half an hour's time. 



Else I would have taken you up into the granary, and 

 shown you how much occupation one finds overhauling and 

 sorting the seeds, and projecting the brave bloom they shall 



