haymakers. But from November
to March, when the floods were out, the "Flowing Source" stood above
an inland sea, with a haystack or two for lesser islets. Then the
river's course could be told only by a line of stakes on which the
wild fowl rested. The meadows were covered. Only a few clumps of
reed rose above the clapping water and shook in the northerly gales.
And then, when no guests came for weeks together, and the salt spray
crusted the panes so thickly that looking abroad became a weariness
of the spirit, Master Simon would reach down his long gun from the
chimney-piece and polish it, and having pulled on his wading-boots
and wrapped a large woollen comforter round his throat and another
round his head, would summon his tap-boy, unmoor the ferry-boat, and
go duck-shooting. For in winter birds innumerable haunt the
riverside here--wild duck, snipe, teal, and widgeon; curlews,
fieldfares, and plovers, both green and golden; rooks, starlings,
little white-rumped sandpipers; herons from the upper woods and gulls
from seaward. Master Simon had fine sport in the short days, and the
inn might take care of itself, which it was perfectly well able to
do. Its foundations rested on sunken piles of magnificent girth--"as
stout as myself," said Master Simon modestly--and on these it stood
so high that even the great flood of 'fifty-nine had overlapped the
kitchen threshold but once, at the top of a spring tide with a
north-westerly gale behind it; and then had retreated within the
hour. "It didn't put the fire out," boasted Master Simon.

He was proud of his inn, and for some very good reasons. To begin
with, you would not find another such building if you searched
England for a year. It consisted almost wholly of wood; but of such
wood! The story went that on a blowing afternoon, in the late autumn
of 1588, two Spanish galleons from the Great Armada--they had been
driven right around Cape Wrath--came trailing up the estuary and took
ground just above Ponteglos. Their crews landed and marched inland,
and never returned. Some say the Cornishmen cut them off and slew
them. For my part, I think it more likely that these foreigners
found hospitality, and very wisely determined to settle in the
country. Certain it is, you will find in the upland farms over
Cuckoo Valley a race of folks with olive complexions, black curling
hair and beards, and Southern names--Santo, Hugo, Jago, Bennett,
Jose. . . .

At all events,