ious, not even a night-line. The Gloucestershire native
is an honest man. He may think, perhaps, that he has nothing to learn
and cannot go wrong, but burglaries are practically unknown, and
poaching is not commonly practised.

To sum up, the River Coln affords excellent sport amid surroundings
seldom to be found in these days. The whole country reminds one of the
days of Merrie England, so quaint and rural are the scenes. The houses
and cottages are all built of the native stone, which can be obtained
for the trouble of digging, so there is no danger of modern villas or
the inroads of civilisation spoiling the face of the country. And
moreover, these country people; being simple in their tastes, have never
endeavoured to improve on the old style of building; the newer cottages,
with their pointed gables, closely resemble the old Elizabethan houses.
The new stone soon tones down, and every house has a pretty garden
attached to it.

I have just returned from a stroll by the river, with my rod in hand, on
the look-out for a rise. Not a fish was stirring. It is the middle of
May, and this glorious valley is growing more and more glorious every
day. An evening walk by the stream is delightful now, even though you
may begin to wonder if all the fish have disappeared. The air is full of
joyful sounds. The cuckoo, the corncrake, and the cock pheasant seem to
be vieing with each other; but, alas! nightingales there are none. As I
come round a bend, up get a mallard and a duck, and beautiful they look
as they swing round me in the dazzling sunlight. A little further on I
come upon a whole brood of nineteen little wild ducks. The old mothers
are a good deal tamer now than they were in the shooting season. Many a
time have they got up, just out of shot, when I was trying to wile away
the time during the great frost with a little stalking. A kingfisher
shoots past; but I have given up trying to find her nest. There is a
brood of dabchicks, and, a little further on, another family of
wild duck.

The spring flowers are just now in their flush of pride and glory.
Clothing the banks, and reflected everywhere in the blue waters of the
stream, are great clusters of marsh marigolds painting the meadows with
their flaming gold; out of the decayed "stoles" of trees that fell by
the water's edge years and years ago springs the "glowing violet"; here
and there, as one throws a fly towards the opposite bank, a purple glow
on the surface of