2 3 WA TERSIDE SKETCHES. 



boat before he begins, for the rickety washing tub was 

 never intended to carry fifteen stone, and he himself con- 

 fesses — and his park-hack would not contradict him — to 

 that modest weight. I bid him good morning, and ter- 

 minate my flying— might I not say Mayflying? — visit to 

 Mowbray Park, not directly coveting my neighbour's goods, 

 but perhaps resolving to think once, twice, aye, and even 

 thrice, before refusing, should Sir Melton ever take it into 

 his head to offer the place to me as a gift. 



The sun smites fiercely upon us on our way to Brawl 

 Mill. The road lies over a stiff hill country, and the valley 

 of the Brawl is far beneath us, a lovely panorama of English 

 scenery. The stream meanders through its course, a mere 

 thread of silver from this distance. Two gentlemen, with 

 a keeper in the rear, are whipping away, now and then 

 resting to mop the perspiration from their foreheads, and 

 appearing to us from our elevation no bigger than the Shem, 

 Ham, and Japhet of a Lowther Arcade Noah's Ark. The 

 driver knows them to be both peers of the realm ; one of 

 them owns the estate, and is a man of note in the racing 

 world. 



Every year at the first appearance of the Mayfly his 

 lordship is telegraphed for wherever he may be, and the 

 earliest train brings him and a companion or two to the 

 nearest station. They take quarters at a roadside inn 

 (where we halt to water our reeking horse) and remain there 

 until the fly has gone, enjoying the sandy floor, the flitches 

 of bacon on the rafters, the bunches of lavender in the 

 drawers, and the fragrant snow-white bed linen. The only 

 member of the party who seems put out by a temporary 

 residence at this rural hostelry is the earl's valet de chambre : 



