AWAY TO WESTMORLAND _ 65 
head, owning defeat. I began to understand the 
frame of mind of the angler who hurled his fly- 
book into the water, crying fiercely to the fish, 
“Take the lot, you brutes !” 
No; one could not get really angry! There 
was nothing to do but laugh. This time the 
trout were scoring. Birds were singing freshly, 
lovely glades sloped in the richly-wooded park, 
and there was a herd of fleet-footed deer. With 
such sounds and sights one could not but rejoice 
in the surroundings, And when, defeated by 
the fishing, I returned to the village, there was 
a game of bowls to be had on Milnthorpe 
bowling-green. For a small charge, visitors are 
allowed to play. The bowling-green gives good 
company. People sometimes speak slightingly 
of bowls—“ Oh, that old man’s game!” I seem 
to remember that Drake played a game of bowls 
on Plymouth Hoe when time was pressing. If he 
was “an old man,” he did very well considering ! 
There was another compensation, last but 
best of all, for the bad brown trout fishing, The 
sea is at hand, and not far from the mouth of the 
river is a weir-pool. Sea-trout were coming up, 
and I went down to meet them. The water was 
too low at the time for them to ascend the weir ; 
and at times they settled down—that is, as much 
as sea-trout ever can settle down—in the weir- 
pool. Public paths run alongside the river here. 
Usually a fisherman, when seriously engaged, 
likes his own company only, but by this pool 
the spectators seemed somehow part of the 
F 
