pike's head followed, and I lost my first fish-always an unlucky omen, and peculiarly so in this instance. My companion had nearly all the runs afterwards. Although we changed rods and places, and fished in exactly the same manner, and I was a constant fisherman while he was only an "outsider," he had all the luck, and nearly all the fish.

I remember we had the best sport on the leeward side of the mere, where the waves were such as to toss our punt about in quite a lively manner, and make it difficult work to row. The fish would touch nothing but a large spoon, and they rushed at it frantically.

Large flocks of coots, and numbers of teal and widgeon, swam cautiously in the centre of the mere, at a very safe distance from the boat. A great crested grebe kept popping up in all sorts of unexpected places, and diving again immediately; vasts clouds of starlings wheeled and manoeuvred in the air; and a heron or couple of wild ducks would rise from the sedges as we approached. I confess I allowed my attention to be distracted by these and kindred sights, for I am not unselfish enough to take a keen interest in a companion's sport if I have none myself.

The meres in the winter are full of interest to the naturalist as well as to the sportsman: a better hunting ground for specimens of all kinds could not be

desired. I write from Norfolk, and it will be a long time before I again wet a line in sight of the Wrekin; but of all the places I have seen for pleasant memories and never-failing gladness, give me, in summer or winter, the seven meres of Salop.

XVIII.

AT "THE ANGLER'S REST"

THE quaint, quiet old hostelries of Izaak Walton's time are very few and far between nowadays. I know but one which would have delighted the Father of Anglers. It stands on the margin of one of England's chiefest rivers. Down the eastern bank of the river for a couple of miles are cliffs of red sandstone rising abruptly from the water, and trailed and trellised all over with vegetation-creepers and ferns, whose bright green shines in delicious contrast to the warm hue of the rock. At regular intervals the cliffs descend, and a charming well-wooded valley is disclosed to the view of him who journeys by the river. In one of these valleys, within twenty yards of the river bank, stands a large old-fashioned inn. It is low-only two stories in height and the roof is thatched with straw, on

which the moss grows, and clusters of houseleek, the juice of which is so good for warts. The bay windows are made of the very smallest diamond panes, and the window-seat inside is large enough for a bed to be made upon it if need be. The bedroom windows have a little roof of their own projecting from the main roof. The chimneys are in all sorts of picturesque and irregular clusters. On one side of the porch a rose bush is trained up to the eaves, and on the other side a clematis bush grows luxuriantly. The porch and door pillars are clothed with honeysuckle, on which the bees gather in too great numbers for timid people to sit comfortably on the bench outside. On a bracket overhead swings the sign, on which is written "The Angler's Rest." There is no garden in front of the house, but, except a narrow pathway to and around the house, the green turf bank slopes away to the water, where there is a sort of staithe at which boats can be moored.

The river is wide here, but is beautifully clear, and runs by over its pebbly bed with a swift current. You would have to go down it a score of miles ere you found it fouled by passing through a town. The pretty little villages it so far passes by leave it unsullied.

Inside the house is as charming as the outside. Everything is spotlessly clean. The bedrooms have

an indescribably fresh and snug look about them. Although the chief articles of food are eggs and bacon, yet the eggs are new-laid, and the bacon is home-fed and home-cured.

The Angler's Rest" has only lost one charm of late years. Formerly the landlord used to brew his own ale, and grand old ale it was-brewed in October and not allowed to be drunk for at least six months. Now the former owner has sold the "Rest" to a brewer, and honest old Parker has to buy all his ale and liquors of his new landlord. The consequence is, you do not get anything fit to drink in the house. Brewers nowadays brew good ale enough for those who can pay for it, but the country "publics" are supplied with the greatest and most undrinkable rubbish out. I have invariably found this to be the case in all parts of the country. Pure ale you cannot get out of the towns. Whether the fault lies with the brewers in general or with the publicans I am unable to say. Parker would not adulterate his beer, so in his case the fault lay with the brewer. I should like to see a law passed prohibiting a brewer to be the owner of a public-house, or at least to prevent the introduction into the tenants' leases of a clause compelling them to buy their liquors of the landlords. This may be thought a digression; but I have so often had my meals in the country