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THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

PRESENTED BY

PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND
MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID

MAN AND NATURE ON
THE BROADS.

BY A. PATTERSON

Author of "Broadland Scribblings," dc.

A QUIET COKNEIi.

Bonbon:

THOMAS MITCHELL, 48-50 ALDERSGATE STREET, E.G.

TO

MBS. E. PHILLIPS,

OF CROYDON,

*

VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE SOCIETY FOB THE PROTECTION OF BIBDS,

AND A
DEVOTED FRIEND OF THE BIRDS,

THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS

January in Broadland
February in Broadland
March in Broadland
April in Broadland
May in Broadland
June in Broadland
July in Broadland
August in Broadland
September in Broadland
October in Broadland -
November in Broadland
December in Broadland

PAQK

9

17

25

34

45

55

65

75

87

101

114

129

PREFACE.

E!N years ago a book on Broadland would have needed a lengthy intro-
duction— the likeness of its spreading lagoons, their whereabouts,
attractions, and delights would have required treatment in detail to
have become intelligible to many who live outside the county that
boasts their possession. Now everyone knows them, many by a personal
inspection, most by repute. In summer crowds of yachting folk, and excursionists
by rail, steamer, and road, visit these reed-surrounded, coot-haunted waters. But
to know them thoroughly is to visit them at every season of the year — a privilege
beyond the means or possibilities of all save the favoured few who live ' upon the
spot.'

'Man and Nature on the Broads' will undoubtedly prove interesting to both
those who know them and those who would like to, and as it is the first venture
which has professed to give anything like an all-the-year-round glimpse of its
people and bird life and general aspects, it may be equally acceptable.

The advance of education, an altered state of agriculture, and several other
causes operating — such as will be further commented upon in some of the chap-

PREFACE.

ters — have materially altered the personnel of the inhabitants, their ways and
customs, and methods of life. Some, like the birds, have become rara aves, and
will probably as individuals become extinct, as some avine species have also
become. The experiences and opinions of a few of these nearly obsolete char-
acters will be found in 'Man and Nature.'

A. P.

Great Yarmouth, October, 1895.

MAN AND NATURE ON
THE BROADS.

JANUARY IN BROADLAND.

' He rises early, and he late takes rest,
And sails intrepid o'er the wat'ry waste;
Waits the return of shot-seal (flight-time) on

the lake,

And listens to the wild-fowl's distant quack;

At dusk steers homeward with a plenteous

freight.' — Life of a Fenman, 1771.

HE fame of the Broads of Norfolk has become world-wide; books in
plenty have been written in praise, and descriptive of them; and folk of
other nations besides our own upon them have pleasured and ' browned,'
and become familiar with their spreading waters. Our introduction,
therefore, need be but brief. Take a map of Norfolk, draw a triangle
on its eastern side with Sea-Palling at its apex, with Norwich on the left

and Yarmouth at its right, and you will include in its area of some 250 square

B

10 JANUARY IN BROADLAND.

miles the greater portion of these 5,000 acres of charming lagoons, and some 200
miles of navigable waterways. They have a beauty peculiarly their own, to enjoy
which to the full, one must needs get under canvas and cruise here and there in
the most leisurely fashion, for Broadland is not a land of worry or bustle, but one
of dreams and delightful lotus-eating. He who in his trim yacht glides through
the narrow channels which connect these quiet lakes, will find a certain sameness
about their characteristic points which is rather refreshing than otherwise, an effect
quite different from that produced by the repetition of many other scenes : and
our" treatment of an individual Broad will suffice for a description of them all.

Broadland offers to all its patrons something that will make their holiday-
jaunt pleasurable even in remembrance. The angler finds its waters teeming with
hungry denizens; to the yachtsman it offers advantages unparalleled in the king-
dom; the artist who loves the picturesque finds in it an el Dorado; the archaeologist,
the botanist, and the entomologist will find plenty to see and do; whilst, the ad-
mirer of things ornithological may travel far and wide in search of a happier hunt-
ing-ground. To the strong the Broad district is exhilarating, and to the weakly
health-giving; and he who wants for nothing, save perfect rest and quietude, may
here idle away the longest summer's day in perfect happiness, undisturbed by the
jostling of his fellows or the costliness of his well-earned holiday. The air is dry
and bracing; the annual rainfall is below many other districts in the kingdom.

The Broadland native is a hardy, docile being, with a tawny, sun-scorched
beard, a fair skin and a ruddy complexion, a nose that savours of the aquiline,
and mild blue eyes, with Norse or Danish blood in his veins mixed with a dash of
Saxon. His vocabulary is limited, but his tongue is easy-going, and 'lets fly' a
strange jargon spiced with stray Danish derivatives and a host of curious accents.

Let us hie away then into Broadland, taking our first glimpse and impressions
with the New Year's advent, when the cold north winds whirl the plumy snow-
flakes hither and thither, and the leafless reed-stems rustle strange music as the
gusts of winter sway them to and fro; and the erstwhile tranquil waters of the
Broad are flinging foam-tipped waves into their midst, or may be, when the merry
skaters glide to and fro upon its glassy surface, and the starving coot, at his wits'
end, has flown to the nearest estuary in search of needful sustenance.

To-day we have found its waters locked quietly in the embrace of the frost-
sprite. Snowflakes are falling and eddying around us in the keen, bustling wind.
The thermometer is still descending, to the delight of many who will be shortly
speeding hither from the town, to whirl with the lively throng on iron-shod feet.

J. \NUARY 7W BE OAT) LA ND. 1 1

We have our skates with us, and being assured by a passing rustic that ' Yow doan't
need tu fare, 'bor, for it's friz hard enuf tu bear a dicky!' — we sit down upon the
stubbly broad-margin and adjust our 'skeets,' as the communicative native terms
them. A few rather awkward movements, for it is long since we tried them, put
us at our ease, and we launch out upon the transparent surface. At this moment
an individual with a parsonical appearance glides swiftly round a reedy promon-
tory, merrily salutes us, takes a right turn, and hies away as on wings of wind.
Eeassured, we strike out boldly, and are soon rapidly gliding in the direction he
has taken.

How bare is the Broad-margin of vegetation ! Nothing remains now of the
broad-leaved water-lilies, whose snow-white petals last summer formed such a de-
lightful foreground to the phalanx of emerald-green reeds, and the taller bulrushes,
whose big brown ' pokers ' flung their shadows over them into the limpid waters
where the lilies rested. The yellow iris has left nothing but its brown broken
stubble upon the once-time boggy, but now hard-frozen * rond,' where the alders
in the background point upwards their leafless twigs. See ! there are several cole-
tits busily hunting in the stunted branches in search of such larvas or little insects
as may have hidden in the bark-chinks for a winter's nap. What nimble bird-
acrobats they are ! Now hanging topsy-turvy, now running head downwards as
the humour or occasion prompts them, it is small matter to them in what position
they hunt their sleeping prey. High overhead passes a harrier of some kind — he
is a Hereward in bird -land!

Observe yonder tiny red-brown birdies busy among those plumy reed-tops.
They are the bearded-tits, or ' reed-pheasants ' of the Norfolk natives. Hardly
must they fare now the aphides and the dipterous insects are dead or hybernating
in more protected locations, and the tiny molluscs that crawled up the verdant
rush-stems are in safe hiding in the depths below. They are glad now to glean
the seeds of the withering Broad-vegetation, among whose leafy recesses they were
cradled. Let us hope Jack Frost may deal gently, and that the evil eye of the
skulking gunner may not glance down i sights ' at them. Many familiar birds we
miss altogether; the rails and moorhens have sought the sheltered ditches; and
the great crested grebes have gone south for the winter, for what good were it to
stay when the little fry have sought the deepest recesses of the Broad, and the
ice-bound surface forbids them diving in search of them ? The coots, held back
until well-nigh starved, hoping against hope for a break in the long-continued
frost — they, too, have departed, but are content to pick up a scanty living in the
salt waters of the tidal estuary, persecuted, alas ! at every turn by the merciless

12

JANUARY IN BEOADLAND.

gun of the wildfowler. The summer-birds of passage are almost forgotten; we
dream not of meeting with the swallows, the reed-warblers or the cuckoo; they
are happy among the insect-legions swarming by the lake-sides of a warmer

continent.

The snow has ceased awhile, and
the sun breaking out smiles down
upon a landscape of unsullied white,
which sparkles with the frost-dust crys-
tals. Yon fenman's cottage, cosily
nestled amid those stunted willows,
and the quaint little pump-mill close
beside it, form an interesting break in
the uniformity of the Broad's surround-
ings. A skein of wild-geese in wedge-
form passes overhead; a puff of smoke
and the report of a gun tell us other
eyes beside our own have observed
them. But they flew far too high for
the leaden messengers to reach them.
The fenman's dinner to-day will be
gooseless. A flock of wild ducks dash
past us on noisy pinions; a squadron
of melancholy rooks are fruitlessly
grubbing in the distant field ; and the
flapping of wood-pigeons falls ever and
anon upon the ear. Only one species
of bird appears really contented, and
that is the hooded crow; what cares he
if hard times cause his fellows to perish,
for does he not thrive upon the carcases
of the fallen ?

While dashing to and fro the time
speeds merrily on, and pleasant com-
pany— for others, the parson among
them, have joined us - - makes it
glide by imperceptibly. We tire at

length, and make again for the edge of the alder 'carr,' whence we started.
Meanwhile the storm-clouds have been piling up in the heavens, and snow
begins again to fall heavily, ere long hiding everything but the nearest objects

BROADLAND ' POKERS.'

JANUARY IN BROADLAND. 13

from view, and these are partially covered with the soft, pure mantle of
winter.

O 0 0 0 % Cf 0 0 0 O

It is still mid-winter and cold, but a thaw has suddenly set in. It is sloppy
underfoot. Nature has assumed a gloomier outlook, and everything but the birds
appears dull ; they, poor rogues, are glad of a respite, for the softened earth will
yield them their meat once more. The snipe has again made his appearance, and
is probing in the unlocked ooze for worms and buried larvae. The chaffinches are
searching in the cultivated patch for uncovered seeds, the lapwings in the low-
lands are eyeing each likely wormcast, and the meadow-pipit is closely scanning
the weedy debris by the ditch-side.

We have been wending our way down from the deserted little Broadland rail-
way station, where the solitary porter seemed loth to drag himself from the cheery
fire in his cabin of an office. A redbreast jauntily chinked us ' good-day ! ' from
an elevated position upon the great white crossing-gate, and a couple of hungry
sparrows fell to fighting on the metals over a breadcrumb dropped from a carriage
window; they really appear to enjoy a breakfast all the better for a preliminary
scrimmage.

As we pass along between the tall hawthorn hedges, redwings reluctantly
leave their feasting upon the lessening berries; now a blackbird, and now a field-
fare takes to startled flight from the rootlets below, where dormant snails were
being eagerly searched for. A woodcock overtops one hedge, and disappears
behind the one on the other side of the road.

Here we are again by the Broadside, according to appointment, and here is
our friend the skating parson, clad from top to toe in wild-fowler's attire, and but
for that intellectual face, you might for all the world take him for a fenman. He
is none of your namby-pamby individuals, who portray life as a perpetual season
of psalm-singing and breast-smiting; why we need remain ' miserable sinners/ he
is at a loss to know, but whilst he

' Lures to brighter worlds arid leads the way,'

he believes in securing all the enjoyment in the present world possible, so long as
such pursuit is in accord with sound judgment and Bible truths. Forsooth ! he is
a sportsman, and is well able to handle a gun and scull a punt; he is muffled up
in costume suited to the season and the errand on which we are going. Our
invite to join him dates back to that frosty morning's skating. His roomy punt,
wherein is fastened by a 'knee' a huge gun, lies beside the puny bridge which
spans a ' neck ' of the Broad that communicates with another. All aboard, his

14 JANUARY IN BPOADLAND.

man, a splendid specimen of the hardy fenman, pushes us off, and heedless of the
bubble-crested waves churned up by the rough wind upon the dark waters of the
Broad — made darker still by the clouds above-head — we are pulled across it.

A bunch of wildfowl are disporting themselves in the chilly waters, while a
few of their number are preening their feathers upon the jagged ice held as at
anchorage by the reed-stems. Silently and motionless we now crouch in the boat;
the fenman, who has quietly glided into the stern, sculls her forward with a single
oar, whilst the parson, on his elbows and knees, places his finger upon the trigger
of the gun. Peering over the boat's rail, we observe that the ducks are becoming
alarmed, and are gathering into a more compact body, and those that were on the
ice have slid down and joined their companions. With a splash and a whirr, the
startled birds take to wing. We momentarily imagine that our host does not in-
tend to fire at them, but we are mistaken. It is the moment he has awaited —
when the crowding birds shall close up and rise in a body from the water. With
a tremendous roar, and a recoil which throws us flat upon our face, the gun belches
forth its death-dealing contents. The parson has made a bag! As the smoke
clears off, and our boatman eagerly pushes us forward, several dead forms are seen
floating upon the surface; a wounded bird or two are stopped short in their efforts
to reach the reedy shelter by the shoulder-gun of the clerical sportsman. Nine
widgeon, a couple of mallard, and a golden eye, are the result of our shot. The
survivors have flown away seaward.

Whilst our man is reloading, our ecclesiastical friend, evidently much elated
by his success, waxes chatty.

i It is a matter for regret,' says he, i that the birds of Broadland have of late
years become scarcer.' Our looking at the victims in the boat draws forth a curi-
ous smile on his rubicund face. i Ah!' he added, 'you think such sharp practice as
this has had something to do with the decrease of our avi-fauna; and perhaps it
has; but it is not the gun altogether which has slaughtered off the birds, but the
drainage of the lowlands, the cultivation of waste-places', and the consequent
dearth of suitable food and shelter, or 'lay,' as the rustics term it, that have more
effectually driven them away. Before steam-mills had usurped the clanking
pump-mills, surplus water accumulated in the lowlands, and legions of wild-fowl
swarmed the marshes. The birds fed and frolicked in comparative safety, and in
positive plenty; and although great numbers were slain, they were but a small
percentage of those that remained. Cattle and corn and root-crops usurp the
places where the duck once swam in the puddles and the wading bird probed in
the shallows. The ruff and reeve and the bittern, which in my father's time were

JANUA RT IN BROADLA ND.

15

numerous, are rare hereabouts to-day. The dastardly egger has done much to
aggravate the situation. Where the gun has slain its units, the egger has annihi-
lated a legion ; but his day, too, is past, for he has destroyed his own ill-favoured
craft. The lapwing has been fairly ousted by him. And then the privacy of
some birds, in the breeding season, has been of late years intruded upon by the
prying tourist, who in every case is not content with seeing but must handle.

A PEEP AT THE BROADS.

'I believe, also, in transmitted instinct; we get fewer birds now, for genera-
tions of disappointment have taught the species to keep away from where they'd
starve. Can I j ustify my action ? Most decidedly. These birds which lie dead here
are foreign-bred. They came, a mere sample of the hosts bred in the morasses
of the north; their demise but little, if anything at all, affects the race. They
are sent us as food: the Author of our being and theirs placed us in dominion
over the fowls of the air as well as of the fishes of the sea. You don't blame a

16

JANUARY IN BROADLAND.

fisherman for taking the life of a herring. And why blame me ? Many of my
parishioners are glad of a wholesome dinner, and these will fall to their share.
And it's no use hiding the fact, I love the l sport,5 cruel as I know you esteem it.
And then a country parson's life is rather a monotonous affair; and anything
that one can conscientiously admit to alleviate or vary it is worth the letting in.
Visit my parishioners? Well ! I do my share at that — but lie low!'

A parcel of swans wheeling aloft has caught his keen, quick eye, and we ' lie
low ' to make ready a warm welcome for them. But their eyes are sharper than
our own, and they fly away to a safer neighbourhood.

Space forbids our entering into all the details of our sport and confabulation.
Shortly, let us say, we have not another shot. After an hour's rest and warm
by the parsonage fireside, and a glance at his splendid collection of representative
local birds all fallen to his own gun, we bid him adieu, having as our share a
couple of wildfowl, affording another illustration of Cowper's lines, as we—

' Share in the plunder, but pity the — birds.'

* f

S ON THE MflrfWE*'
I * *

FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND,

' — At dusk steers homeward with a plenteous freight,
The crazy vessel groans beneath the weight.
A tidy housewife waits his coming home,
Gets dry apparel, and cleans up her room.

And spreads a homely plenty o'er his board.'

— Life of a Fennian, 1771.

HE countryside has assumed a bleak and dreary aspect. The snows of
January have given way before the drizzly rainfall. As our train
rattles along through the barren fields which lie on either side our
route, and spread away to the distant woodland, or are lost in the
horizon, we cannot fail to notice the barrenness which characterises
the environs of Broadland in the month of i February — fill-dike/
Here and there Farmer Griles or his neighbours have fastened an unwilling team

c

18 FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND.

to the plough, for it is time the pease and beans were sown. The horses are some-
what restive ; their spell of idleness, that has made them impatient of restraint,
is ended, and hard work lies before them. Contented Hodge has been dressing
and repairing the hedges, and lopping the willows and poplars; their shorn limbs
lie alongside the hawthorns. In one field a number of graceful white birds are
eagerly following the plough. We have time just sufficient to identify them as
the train shoots into and through a belt of fir-trees, and the little Broadland
station looms into view. They are seabirds, and none other than the black-
headed gulls (Larus ridibundus) whose nests will be found in the early summer
upon the swampy 'ronds ' that margin some of the Broads. Food has been scarce
of late, and a meal of fat red earth-worms becomes a feast as well as a luxury.

We have travelled in pleasant company. A brace of well-clad fishermen,
armed with the insignia of their craft, are bent on trying the case of Angler v.
Esox lucius, for the freshwater shark of our reedy lagoons has yielded to the
cravings of hunger, and come out from his lair in the reed-bed in search of small
fry for breakfast. As we trudge along by the naked hedgerows there is no lack
of pleasant chat. The Broadland angler is more than half a naturalist, and there
is much that calls for remark when more than one pair of eyes are keenly alert to
the sights and sounds which continuously present themselves, even at so gloomy
a season. Greenfinches in small flocks fly hurriedly overhead, whistling noisy
protests against meddlesome husbandmen whose radish-beds they have been too
busily gleaning in. A couple of red-faced goldfinches are tamely pecking at an
almost seedless thistle-tuft. We pass them at very close quarters. Who but the
heartless birdcatcher could begrudge them their freedom? He is as sorry as we
are at their perceptible decrease in the country, but his is a fox's grief.

* We'll bid you good day for the present,' is the parting salute of one of our
impatient friends : ' Yow kin mardle (gossip) wi' the cadders (jackdaws) and ring-
dows, 'bor; but we hain't got no time to dawdle, so we'll jist gie ye the seal o' the
day and be a-moving,' jibes in angler number two with a merry laugh as he good-
temperedly wraps up his impatience in a bit of Broad Norfolk lingo.

Left to ourselves, we saunter on yet more leisurely, so many interesting
tit-bits are turning up on every side. Now we peer through the hedge at some
starlings foraging upon a manure-strewn field. What can it be that so absorbs
their attentions? We clamber over the rickety gate to satisfy our curiosity,
scattering the much-surprised squabblers, who make for the nearest trees to watch
our strange procedure and await our departure. We find quite a host of brand-

FEBRUARY IN B1WADLAND. 19

lings, which, unsavoury though they be, have gladly been found by the speckled
stares. The earthworms have become cognisant of the slight change in the atmos-
phere, and are working upwards. The moles have followed them, and are making
the path side hillocky with their landmarks. Some remnants of snow, soiled and
melting, lie piled beneath the hedgerow, where the rough winds but recently
drifted it. A pale yellow primrose has ventured to open its delicate petals, and
close beside it the young leaves of the coltsfoot are peering above the withered
grassbents that the rains and snows of winter have levelled. The hazel on our
right is already pushing its catkins out from their winter hiding-places.

The loud report of a gun in an adjacent market-garden startles us, as it does
a number of little birds that dash over the hedge in precipitate flight. One of
them, vainly striving to keep up with the others, staggers in its flight, and falls
to the earth, which it reddens with its life's blood. A slight flutter and the poor
birdie is dead. It is a bullfinch. Peering through the hawthorns we find the gar-
dener picking up two or three other victims, and apparently well satisfied with
the accuracy of his aim. ' Blood-ulf,' as the bird is named in Norfolk, is no favour-
ite visitant to the orchard just now, for the plum and cherry, and even the goose-
berry buds are set upon by those hard destructive mandibles ; they say the good
he does in other seasons is counterbalanced by the mischief he commits in winter,
a statement that is very much open to question.

Watch that grey bird, with black wings and tail, and a dash of sable hue
beneath the eyes ! But he's watching us and takes to wing, disappearing in the
orchard. It is a great grey shrike, or butcher-bird. Lanius excubiter, the ' Sen-
tinel butcher,' as his Latin cognomen denotes, is expressive of his habits and his
occupation. Here is a poor little wren he has impaled upon a thorn. We have
disturbed him at his repast. Hearken to the tapping of the woodpecker; but we
may not loiter to discover him. The rooks cawing noisily overhead are evidently
commencing nesting operations. What an uproar to be sure! The redwings and
fieldfares, busy still among the hawthorns, and their cousins the blackbirds and
thrushes amongst the roots below, are passed unheeded by, as are the missel-
thrushes already nest-building in the topmost branches of an old pear tree.

We loiter just a moment when passing a keeper's lodge, with its interesting
surroundings. Yon outhouse door is his ' museum.' On it are nailed many a real
and supposed foe and depredator, from the marauding tabby-cat to the harmless
kestrel, at whose hands — or rather claws and mandibles — his precious pheasants
may or may not have suffered. Surely those barn-owls could never have con-
ceived a thought of molestation. The rats on which, with field-mice, they almost

20

FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND.

exclusively preyed, Lave done more to merit vengeance than all the victims hung
beside the really useful nightbirds. The marsh-harrier (Circles ceruginosus), pre-
ferring vermin to all else, may have cast longing eyes upon the warren when hard
pinched; but the keeper imagined him dangerous to his interests, and on the sup-
position condemned and executed him. Hither comes the gamekeeper — a rather
uncompromising-looking fellow — with a ferret in each hand, and a brace of vicious
curs at his heels. The rats have exhausted his patience, they have been woefully

THE PENMAN'S COTTAGE.

on the increase, and small wonder, when their natural enemies have been so ruth-
lessly and stupidly destroyed !

Here we are at length at the Broad margin. Yonder are our angler friends,
busy, it is evident, our glasses revealing them tackling a reluctant pike. Close at
hand are several ducks and swans probing the soft mud of the shallow l deek ' or
boat-sluice that is connected with the Broad. They are seeking mollusca and
edible roots. The fenman has thrown in some maize, of which they leisurely par-
take. How broken and colourless the sedges and stubble of other broad plants,
and how bare are the straw-coloured reedstems of foliage! what of it remains is

FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND. 21

sere and drooping. We hear the calling of the moorhens, and at the farthest
extremity of the reed-patch a dusky coot is cautiously paddling out into the open.
Some wood-pigeons fly overhead. A flight of lapwings is discerned, and a small
flock or two of wild-fowl are making large circles high in the air.

Hard by lies an old wherry. It has been heeled over by the boat -builder to
get at some faulty timbers. Beyond this characteristic craft of Broadland waters
is an old drainage mill, close by which, nestling among sojne willows, is the Fen-
man's cottage, whither we are wending our footsteps. A devious pathway, flanked
on either side by a narrow lane of water, leads us to it. Let us step in, for we are
not strangers here. The good old lady, whose deafness is to blame for not answer-
ing to our knock, bids us a cheery welcome. She has just spread the table against
"the old man's home-coming.

' Jim Trett's out hinder reed-cuttin',' says his loving spouse, * but he'll sune
cum in, 'bor; sit ye down, for he's pretty reg'lar tu his males, 'bor, I kin tell ye !'

Whilst the good woman is finishing her preparations for the noonday meal
we have a look round, taking stock of the room and its contents. The white-
washed walls are hung with several common prints of Scriptural or sporting sub-
jects, a tiny looking-glass overtops the mantle in company with a faded sampler
worked by the lady of the household when at school. A couple of cheerful linnets
hang on either side of the window in the tiniest of cages, and beneath them are
several geraniums struggling hard to brave the winter, and so far they have been
successful. An aged cat upon the elbow of the old man's chair sits blinking at the
fluttering birdies, thinking no doubt of times gone by when she was wont to hunt
their fellows. A few oddments in the shape of wearing apparel, lines, a bird-net,
and an ancient flint-lock gun, long past service, complete the furniture ' in sus-
pension,' with the exception of a quaint old timepiece that swings its bright brazen
pendulum as methodically and untiringly as it did when the good old folks were
novices at housekeeping — fifty years ago. Three or four birch chairs, a side-table
overcrowded with household treasures, a dilapidated bureau that contains the rest,
with a sturdy table creaking beneath a plentiful repast, comprise the furniture
of below-stairs. Everything — even the very brick floor — is as clean as scouring-
soap and elbow-grease can make it. The old lady's snow-white cap encircles a
face upon which simplicity and good-nature are finely blended amid the wrinkles
of advancing years.

We have no time for further survey ere a heavy footstep announces the
arrival of l Jem 'the fenman, who enters with scant ceremony. His boat lies

22 FEBRUARY IN BROADLAND.

moored close by the house, stacked with freshly-cut reeds. We are soon seated
around the table, 'quite at home,' and on the best of terms. What pleasant
gossip makes the meal a luxury! Of itself it is one, for our viands are not un-
savoury or badly brought to table. Who could say ' Nay ! ' to a leg of plump wild
rabbit, snared in the little garden-patch outside, or to tender lapwing, shot but
the day before upon the marshes? Did we like apiece of boiled pike and potatoes
or a plate of potted eels? Did we not? And didn't we just enjoy a nice little
cut from a wild goose's breast, and that wind-up with the richest of home-made
bread with a bit of cheese such as you seldom find better out of the county?
Eather! But that goose — it was a pink-footed fellow (Anser brachyrhyncus), so
we told our host, who, not having shot the like before, so he said, had saved the
feet for identification. He was ' gormed,' like Ham Peggoty, if he could ' spake
them hard words at all ! ' — and good eating the goose was too; and the tea wasn't
bad which washed down this strange Broadland repast. As for Jim, a huge dump-
ling, packed full of starlings, formed the principal item on his bill of fare. And
the old fellow, with his tousled hair, his unkempt beard, and ruddy complexion,
appeared to thrive on his homely fare and his outdoor life in the strong, pure
air of East Anglia. And how does the fenman pass his time through each
succeeding season ? Let Jim tell us, for he has settled to his after-meal pipe, and
has waxed chatty and communicative as the smoke curls upward.

* Well, vow see it's like this, 'bor, there's allus suffin' tu du, be the days long
or short, and be they hot or cold. Start from tu-day, if yow like; I'm sloggin' hard
in among the reeds jest now, and have been off an' on since Christmas, when the
wather ha' let me. What du they du with the reeds? Why, use 'em for thatchin',
mostly. Years ago, afore laths wasriv', and sold for plasterin', we used to make a
better figure on 'em than we du tu-day. Law ! times ain't noways like as they was
long years ago; everything is changed — and for the wuss, at least for us fenmen.
We ain't fenmen now, but simply lab'rers.

( Time was when we cud git our livin' — an' that's fifty yeer ago an' more — on
an' out o' the Broad alone. There was allus somethin' in the fishin' or shootin'
line tu du. Now-a-days it's reed-cuttin' in winter, mixin' it off with a little eel-
pickin' (eel-spearing) when the wather's open. Then cums ditchin' an' hedgin'.
In June theer's ' haysel,' or hayharvest, for which we get pay accordin' tu day or
acre or loads, jist as we agree for. Then there's gladdon-cuttin' for litter — that's
the rough marshy stuff mixed with young sedges, reeds, an' so on. Later on cums
harvest. Gret that over, and we go arter the eels agin, among which we sometimes
du pretty good bisness, l babbin ' for 'em, catchin' 'em in bigger numbers as the

FEBRUARY IN RROADLAND. 23

time goes on, in eel-sets, when they begin tu run (make for the sea). Now an'
agin a job's tu be had a-rowin' gents out a-pikin', or helpin' 'em in the warmer
weather among the roach an' bream. Takin' all these things intu consideration,
with catchin' moles, and havin' an eye to the cattle on the marshes, and another
on the old pump-mills, time gets filled in all yeer round. There's a pig in the sty
tu help with the rent, eggs from the chickens ain't all loss, and gatherin' mush-
rumes pays for 'bacca. This ain't bad 'bacca yow've got here, sir, nohow!'

' Times is altered I was tellin' yow. Why, when I wor a boy, and the Broads
wor freer than they are tu-day, and theer warn't no ' close seasons ' for bards — and
theer was bards then, let me tell yer, I ha' known my father tu kill twenty mallard
an' duck in a mornin'. There was ruffs an' reeves as used to nest hereabouts —
these we snared, and allus had a riddy market for 'em. Plovers' eggs cud be gath-
ered by the peck ; that's all dun with. A hatful takes a mornin' now tu git. Where
are the bards gone ? Why, theer ain't the bards there was. Du it stand tu reason
theer can be when in 1821 my dad took a hundred an1 sixty dozen eggs in one
season ? And that was only a sample of plenty more. These eggs, let me tell yow
was reeves', snipes', pewits', redlegs' (redshanks), and a fair dose of coots' an' moor-
hens' mixed in among 'em. In course they ' killed the goose as lays the golden
eggs,' so tu spake; but there ain't the 'commadation for the bards, 'bor, now if
they'd cum, for everywhere's all drained an' cultiwated. In winter my father cud
pretty well keep us with the fowl he knocked over with that old flintlock an' the
wegetables as he'd grown in the garden-patch. I get a few birds, as yow see, but
it's a sort of favour as I'm allowed to shoot, for that sort of thing's done for pretty
well among us fenfolk. Theer's licenses tu git, and the rich 'uns ha' got it all theer
own way, and on the Broads the rights of owners so-called are more enforced.'

. Dinner over we make for the Broad, taking a peep in the ' outhouse ' on our
way, wherein are stored his various scythes, his reedhooks, traps, and other imple-
ments; herein the fowls all roost at night, and drop in at leisure in the daytime,
as occasion for laying prompts them. The pig hard by gives a squeal of recogni-
tion, and the ferrets in the corner rattle at the wires for a rat for dinner. We
shove off from the little staith — he to resume his business among the reeds, our
purpose being a row round upon the silent waters. We leave him pushing his
old punt into the crackling mass, hands encased in l dannocks ' (leather gloves),
sickle in one, and reedhook in the other. With this latter instrument he brings to
book the straggling stems.

We have a peep into the pike-fishers' boat. They have secured some half-a-
dozen fish, one huge fellow weighing at least a stone. Gulls are winging to and

24

FEBRUARY IN SROADLAND.

fro over the dark waters, picking up here and there some defunct fish. Two are
quarrelling over a dead eel that the recent frosts have killed. A Sclavonian grebe
is dipping here and there in the now rippling waters, for the winds are stirring
and sending up the promise of more rain. A flock of widgeon wheel round and
round overhead, and finally descend, dashing themselves upon the surface with the
impetuosity peculiar to the race. But time is going, and great rain-drops are
making concentric circles upon the Broad. We row for the fenman's cottage,
arriving at the mooring-stage simultaneously with the good man himself. A
flock of lapwings are beating up against the wind within gunshot. The old man
snatches up his muzzle-loader, which lies in the boat, and brings down a trio of
the unfortunate plovers.

After another cup of tea and another interesting chat, we take our leave,
hoping to revisit Broadland in the blustering month of March.

ORMESBY BROAD.

MAKCH IN BBOADLAND.

' Let me live harmlessly, and near the reedy brink

Of Broadland waters, have a neat thatched dwelling-place,
Where I may see my dancing quill or cork down sink,

With eager bite of bold, bright perch, or rudd, or dace.' — Walton (adapted).

PKING is now but a short way off us, and between the bursts of wintry
weather which the storm-king flings over the face of Nature she essays
to put on a cheery smile. In one of these sunnier moods of Nature we
are tempted to venture Broadwards for a turn amongst the perch, for our
lines and rods have been idle these many months, and perch are becom-
ing hungry. Lobworms have been difficult to procure, but patient
searching has not been unrewarded. ' Angling, in my judgment,' says old Izaak,
* deserves to be commended,' naively adding in effect that i there are no practices
that deserve commendation but may be justified.' Sir Henry Wootton, one of
Walton's piscatorial friends, used to tell him, i Angling was, after tedious study, a

D

26 MARCH IN BROADLAND.

rest to the mind, a cheerer of his spirits, a diversion of sadness, a calmer of unquiet
thoughts, a moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begot
habits of peace and patience in those that practised it.' But contemplation may
do for warmer days when sport is uncertain; action and brisk sport are necessary
to proper enjoyment in the chillier days of March. There is pleasure in prepara-
tion and in the very anticipation of it. We are in a very short time whirled from
the busy town into the heart of Broadland. We noted little difference in the fields
and market-gardens through which we were hurried ; certainly the farm labourers
seemed somewhat busier than in February, for the sowing of oats and barley is
claiming the attention of the farmer. The strange antics of a lad in one field did
attract our notice, but we were beyond him ere we could make much out of him.
It was evident the proceedings of a crowd of great birds that blackened the field
were not to his satisfaction, and to frighten these away was undoubtedly his intent,

As we wend our way through a lane we witness the selfsame thing repeated,
and upon the light wind is borne a noisy clapping sound, and the words of a strange

weird ditty:—

' Gadders and crows, take care o' yer toes,
For here cum the clappers
To knock yer down back'ards,
So hallo ! Carwhoo:

It maybe that the sable birds are laying claim to a few of the seeds that * fell
by the wayside,5 as their ancestors did in the days when the (rod-man taught the
people in parables. Christ was a keen observer of bird-life, and who can say that
He did not teach many a lesson from their ways and doings that are not recorded
in the Book ?

Seeing us lagging by the gateway the crow-boy sidles up and wishes us the
1 seal of the day,' accompanying a rough clumsy bow with a good-humoured grin. .
With an eye open to a ' largess,' the Norfolk equivalent to the Eastern ' back-
sheesh,' he allows us to examine the grotesque implement which is supposed to
put terror into the hearts of the so-called crows, which are in reality nothing more
than harmless grub-eating rooks. We find it constructed of three pieces of thin
wood, oblong in shape, the centre one being lengthened into a handle. The two
outer pieces are loosely tied by strings at their lower ends, which go through a
couple of holes in each. When shaken a loud rattling sound is produced.

6 And so you scare crows, my lad?' we query.

4 Wai, 'bor,' he replies, 'I'm tryin' tu; a little scarin' oan't hart 'em! Why
doan't I shute some on 'em, and hang 'em up to scare t'others ? Yow can't per-

MARCH IN BROADLAND. 27

suade owd Farmer Giles tu du nothin' of the kind, for I heer'd him say tu as how,
when he wor young, he knocked 'em over all ways, an' what did it du? Why, his
crops wor simply spiled with the wire-worams an' other critters the rooks are fond
on. Du yow see them white bards hinder? Them's sea-mows (gullsj. They're
the master-piece bards for pickin' up worams (worms). I ha' seen 'em so full of
'em as they couldn't scarce fly. Du I know a rook from a crow ? I shud jest think
I du. They ain't the same at all. Eooks prog togither in flocks, crows doan't.
Crows ha' got brussels (bristles) round the top bake (upper mandible), an' rooks
ha' got white skin on instead. Crows like dade things better 'an grubs and corn
an' taters. Du I like the job ? Wai, I doan't mind it, there ain't a sight o'hard
work about it. Thankee ! sir, but I must be a-goin', yinder rooks are settlin'
athowt the field, an' master'll wonder if I'm clean gone tu sleep or if I'm shanny !'

Our merry crow-boy slouches away repeating his clapping and his merry
refrain. He appears an intelligent lad for such brainless labour, and withal seems
contented with his lot. He is not the lout his fathers were, for the days of com-
pulsory education had dawned not in their time. The yokel reads and thinks
to-day, and is not the serf in body and mind to the squire and parson as he was a
generation or two ago, whilst the squire and parson are more tolerant and broader-
minded than many of their predecessors were. It is well that ' larnin' ' does not
drive all the lads from the ploughtail, and make them discontented with the dull
monotony of an agricultural life. Our crow-boy may be tempted in the autumn,
like many of his class, in this district, when harvest is over, to join a fishing crew
and pursue the North Sea herring fishery. And will he be acting contrary to the
instincts inherited from his forefathers the old Vikings, who were fishermen and
farmers as well as warriors ?

It is a glorious March morning. The blustering winds that ushered in the
month have dried up much of the moisture February left behind it. The sun has
forced a passage out between the clouds that obscured his face earlier in the day,
and his rays are lighting up the lane ahead of us. With the weight of parapher-
nalia we are carrying, for we are laden with the trappings of the angler, we can
easily believe old Sol is gaining strength; indeed, the perspiration is standing in
little beads upon our foreheads. There are no conveyances here from the station
to the Broad until the warmer days shall lure larger numbers hither. It is ten
minutes since we rested by the scarecrow's gate. Let us sit a moment or two on
this grassy bank. A startled thrush dashes out of the hedge hard by us. See!
it has already built its rough clay-lined nest. There are a couple of eggs within
it. A pair of chaffinches on the tree behind us are choosing a site for the erec-

28 MARCH IN BROADLAND.

tion of theirs. Heigho ! here's a little violet peeping out from the bank-side, and
another. How beautiful they smell: it was the scent and bright blue that betrayed
them. Daisies dot the sward with their pearly faces, and in the holl (ditch), be-
neath the blackthorn, are some pale yellow primroses, which contrast strongly
against the dark green leaves that sheltered them while they were yet unfolded.
Those golden flowers nearer the water are the starry petals of the pilewort. The
humble-bee has ventured out; the catkins on the sallow upon our right have
attracted several of these droning insects. The leaves of the honeysuckle in the
hedge appear ready to unfold. In the field beyond, the young grass has carpeted
the soil with brightness. There goes a rabbit, and another. How the merry
things frisk and gambol! A small flock of wood-pigeons, loudly smiting their
pinions, pass overhead in hurrying flight. But for our presence, which they
observe not until close upon us, they would most likely have dropped down in the
wheat-field behind us for a dinner of the young sweet blades. What wild shy
birds they are ! And notwithstanding the constant persecution to which they are
subject, they seem yearly on the increase here.

Quietude and motionlessness are two great essentials to observation ; and if the
naturalist would insinuate himself into the good graces of Nature he must bring
both qualifications into exercise. Note that hare! hither it comes limping along
the road. Ah! your movement caught his quick eye, and with a hasty bound he
has darted through the hedge. How strange it is, that when unsuspicious of
danger, the hare sometimes keeps straight on, and almost runs himself into it !
The position of his eyes may account for his not seeing so well ahead as on either
side of him. Did you observe that small brown head peering above the bank?
There it is again. It is a stoat. He has scented the unlucky rodent, and has
already got upon his track. So pertinaciously does the stoat keep upon the trail
of an intended victim that we may be almost certain poor puss will fall an easy
prey to him. A frog just now ' plumped' into the ditch: this must surely be
his first day's outing ; all winter through he lay snugly asleep in the mud below.
The little birds grow bolder; and so long as we remain quiet, they pop in and
out among the thorny twigs and budding tree-sprays.

But, friend Piscator, it is time we were moving. It's getting well towards
the noon-hour. The waters of the Broad will lie before us when we get beyond
the village ' pub.' Going inside? Well, we might do worse, if we might do
better. But a jug of hot steaming coffee, and some sweet white bread and a bit
of cheese will the better befit us for a foray amongst the perch. The genial host
is profuse in information, and obliging, as is the wont of his fraternity, to the

STOAT WITH A WOODCOCK.

30 MARCH IN EROADLAND.

drier portion of his clients sitting in a recess near a blazing log. Here is dis-
pensed much genuine Norfolk jargon, and one may overhear the state of village
things in general, from their agricultural doings down to the very latest particu-
lars about the squire's spaniel's recent litter of puppies.

Piscator somewhat clumsily tumbles himself and his machinery into the boat,
for he is a heavy as well as an ancient member of the fraternity. In a few minutes
we are pulling over the rippling surface of the Broad, by the margin of which we
swiftly glide along. The coots are making love in the yellow reeds, their harsh
clicking, like the sounds of the driving of stakes, being hushed as our right oar
crackles among the brittle stems. There must be scores of them. The moorhens
are also en evidence. Quite a little colony of them flutter hastily into cover,
trailing their long lobated feet upon the water, churning it into little bubbles in
their progress, as we turn a bend in the interminable array of straight sere reed-
stems.

' Here's a good hard bottom,' quotha Piscator, ' and it's nicely under the lee.'

Very good. We gently drop our huge flintstone anchors in about ten feet
of water, and throwing over a little ground bait, affix our rods and tackle.

Piscator is loud — yet not too loud, for suppressed exuberance is essential to
success as much as baits — in praise of some flat-tailed lobworms, which he has
had under training in soft, damp moss ' this fortnight.' We wait not long for a
nibble. Our float suddenly disappears in an oblique direction. A goodly-sized
perch has evidently gone away with it. We strike, and manage to hook our
client, which strains hard at the line, now rushing this way and now the other.
'Landing net, quickly!' but Piscator's attention is simultaneously called to his
own float, which has also vanished.

1 Eh! what a beauty! ' he ejaculates as, shaking itself furiously, his fish rises to
the surface, cutting the water with its stiff-spined dorsal fin and showing its 'fins
of Tyrian dye.' Our friend's face is a study as the workings of his mind are
depicted upon it. It is a knowing perch that manages to outwit him. Bah! the
hook has given way, and with a swirl of its great tail the fortunate fellow sinks
down below to tell no doubt a tale of treachery. ' A three pounder if a fish at
all ! ' cries Piscator with a relaxed look of disappointment upon his countenance.
The.tension on his line and nerves has slackened simultaneously.

Surely that wounded fellow has made his companions doubtful of our inten-
tions. Certain it is that biting ceases for a while; and by way of variation we take
to nibbling on our own account. There's nothing like a solace of bread and cheese

MARCH IN BROADLAND. 31

when a 'fluke ' has happened. Sitting quietly, the various birds around us become
assured, and take but little notice of us. The grebes have returned from the estu-
ary; they are coyly coquetting not far away. What beautiful crests of black and
red adorn their noble-looking heads! Soon they will be piling up those rotting
leaves into a platform for their rough, dull-shelled eggs. Who has not peered into
a great grebe's egg-basket without being struck by the swampy state of it, the very
eggs barely escaping the water that filters in ! But they take some finding, for the
birds are adepts at hiding, and such mimics of surroundings are they. Those little
birds that dashed out from the reed-bed are willow-wrens, surely; and that loud
harsh cry from the tree-clump was the note of the wryneck. The latter is an
unusually early arrival.

The mallard has already paired off. Yonder fly a couple. The plain duck is
being playfully pursued by her handsomer lover: some petty difference, or maybe
the prying of a busy otter, put them to flight. What a splash they make as they
strike the open water and settle there for an amorous gossip. The white, bald
forehead of a coot is seen as it peeps out from between the reeds; now another
more boldly ventures out. They are not pleased with our close proximity. What
a noise yonder rooks are making in the tree-tops ! What squabblings over bits of
sticks and twigs are indulged in ! Unjust appropriativeness is a vice that is not
exclusively human. A flock of brent geese pass overhead, northern bound. Some
bearded tits are surveying the reed-clump yonder, as much in search of nesting-
quarters as of seeds or insects. The mellow call of a redshank from an adjoining
' rond' is distinctly heard; and a pair of lapwings are noisily flying over yonder
field.

4 You've a bite ! ' * All right, Piscator. And you've a nibble.' In giving his rod
the wrist, a huge sandwich is jerked into the water; but what matters that when
business is becoming brisk ? The moorhens will profit by the accident. This time
we land a fish apiece, both ' sizeable ' specimens, as the saying goes. Two or three
others are landed in course of time. Away goes our float again. There's a big
fellow at it this time surely. We strike him; and then begins a game at give and
take. What a whopper he must be! it takes some manosuvreing to bring him to
the surface; when lo! to our surprise, we find we are fast to a fair-sized jack. The
lob-worm smote his fancy. And we finally lay him panting in the boat.

The strengthening of the wind brings our finishing cast earlier than it would
have been ; but there is every appearance of an increase of it. The air is growing
keener. On our way back to the staith we nearly clash oars with our old friend
the fenman, who has been getting in the last few rods of reeds. We are sorry to

32 MARCH IN SROADLAND.

decline his invite to drop in and have a cup of tea, for the day is waning apace.
It is stiff work pulling against the wind, and the dark waters are furrowed with
foamy billows. We miss the starlings from the reeds to-day. They have already
begun to think of housekeeping in the busier town.

Observe yonder big hawk-like bird! What grand sweeps it makes across the
reed-beds. It is a marsh-harrier (Circus ceruginosus). We are fortunate at see-
ing such a noble bird. It is beating the reeds in search of a supper. See ! a poor
little moorhen, unluckily taking to flight instead of diving, is speedily pounced
upon. It has struck its needle-pointed talons into the water-fowl, and has now
settled upon a tussocky promontory that runs out from between the reeds. The
game-keeper will be eager to level gun at the outlawed bird when occasion offers,
for unfortunately, it does not always confine its attentions to such worthless game
as this— at least he says so.

We have not yet caught sight of the swallows, for none have at present
arrived. The fieldfares and redwings are missing; they have gone back to their
northern homes. We have not heard the cuckoo, for though

' In March — he search,
In April he shows his bill.'

What ducks are those in the distance — some hundred at the least ? Lend us
your field-glasses, Piscator. They are widgeon. They are en route for the moras-
ses of colder latitudes, but have dropped in for a rest and feed. It is tantalising
to the gunner, whose right to maim and kill ran out on the last of February; and
the widgeon is no despicable morsel upon the table. We wonder if our old friend,
the fenman, has any scruples upon the matter ? Why ! here comes the old fellow
himself, rowing as hard as his toughened arms will allow him. We await his
coming.

4 All right, guv'nor ! but I jest thowt as how yow might like a tit-bit for yer
dinner to-morrer,' he ventures to say, giving a knowing look at us and another at
Piscator. l Them owd perch oan't cum up tu a good cock smee (widgeon) with a
onion tucked inside him. Yow can put 'em under the scaly ones if yow fale at all
nervous ; but lor, sir, how kin a feller keep his finger off the trigger when sich a
pretty little dinner-piece gets in front of his fowlin'-piece ? '

We send the old gent back to the ' missus ' in very good spirits, and quietly
place the birds where he suggested. Who would condemn us ? The thing comes
about so irresistibly, and the most exemplary of us are amateur poachers at the
worst, and at the best the hunting instinct still lingers in us.

MARCH IN BROADLAND. 33

The last of the rooks has gone home to his roost, the sparrows have got over
their squabbling for perches and prestige in the ivy, the larks have settled in the
wheatfield, and the partridge is calling his mate in the brushwood, as we enter the
Broadland station, well satisfied with our exploits and glad to escape the rain that
has begun to pelt down in a drenching shower. As we rattle along Piscator waxes
chatty and even eloquent over the praises of Broadland; and the habits and char-
acteristics of its finny inhabitants are expatiated upon at length. ' What sport,'
he queries, ' can be so harmless or delightful, so gently exciting, without tendency
to revelry and riot, requiring so little exertion of body or incurring such a minimum
of risk ? What a trifling expense does it run one to, and what can be more condu-
cive to health and one's general well-being ? One gets free from the foul atmos-
phere of the shop and office, away from the worry and cares of business ; and, mind
you this, a man up to his armpits in business and the worries of every-day life
must have relaxation and recreation, or a break-down will come sooner or later. A
man may here turn his back upon toiling and moiling, and enjoy Nature in her
quiet beauty and retirement to the full. His surroundings and gentle pursuit
banish dull care away for the time being, and he returns home to his duties invig-
orated and none the worse able to meet life's disappointments and reverses, as well
as better able to appreciate its blessings. I say Hooray! for the life of an angler,
and success to the general craft ! '

Our friend's eloquence so far carries him away that, oblivious of what his creel
contains, his hand comes down upon it with a bang, when lo! in a confused heap
tumble tins, tackle, fish, and wildfowl, and upon the top of them fall rods and
himself as well, as he makes a rush to prevent this consummation. He has barely
placed things in equilibrium when the face of the ticket-collector appears at the
carriage window, and a stentorian voice utters the orthodox and stereotyped, ( Tick-
ets, gents, please ! '

A BROADLAXD BRIDGE.

APRIL IN BROADLAND.

' Beneath a willow, long forsook,
The fisher seeks his customed nook;
And bursting through the crackling sedge,

He startles from the bordering wood

The bashful wild-duck's early brood.' — Wartnn.

HE days of mingled shower and sunshine have dawned upon peaceful
Broadland. Lured by the warmer days of an April sun and the refresh-
ing raindrops, nature has assumed a pleasant smile. The pale young
leaves are everywhere eagerly unfolding their beauties, and the joyous
birds are making the countryside merry with glad song, above them
all, towering heavenwards, the skylark pours out the fulness of its little
heart in praise to its Creator. l All Thy works praise Thee ! '

The clank of the bit is still heard in the fields, for Farmer Griles and his good
man Hodge have not yet completed their sowing of the seed for the winter crops,
and it is pleasant to hear the cheery '- Who-oaf of the ploughman as he rests for
a moment the panting horses, while he runs his eye with justifiable pride up the
straight, clean-cut furrow he has just turned over. We can excuse his self-con-
gratulatory remark — l Th' Prince o' Wales couldn't cut a furrer claner if he tried,

We have reached Broadland to-day by road, for what can be more delightful
than a country drive when the hedgerows are putting on their bright new vesture,
and the wild-flowers are peering out from their mossy nooks beneath them, and
the little birds are playing at hide-and-seek in the thickening foliage, preparatory
to settling down to the sterner duties of domestic life? It has been a glorious

APRIL IN BROADLAND.

35

jog-trot ; and Boxer has had matters pretty well all his own way to-day, and, may-
hap, has been wondering if we'd forgotten to bring the whip, for it's little hurrying
he has had these six or seven miles. Who could scramble across country, notwith-
standing a smart passing shower necessitated the outbringing of the big green
gingham strapped behind the footboard, when so much that is lovely invited our

From Photo by

HOW THE BROADS GROW UP.

[Mr. Payne Jennings.

attention and our admiration, and the praise of Him who pronounced as * good '
the creatures of His hands ? There was scant room for an agnostic in our vehicle.
The blue of the harebell, the ruddier tints of the wood-sorrel, and the pale yellow
of the primrose contrasted delightfully with the fresh green blades of the various
grasses which are shooting up their myriad spears. How refreshing to the eye were

36 APRIL IN BROADLAND.

the meadows dotted with l buttercups and daisies,' and even the more barren patches
on the uplands sprinkled with the broad-leaved coltsfoot, from among which peered
the starry flowers of yellow. And then the birds ! Have they not been conspicu-
ous by their presence and their song? The wayside hedges and the woodland are
peopling rapidly with the immigrant songsters; the harsher cries of those that
roam this district in the barren winter are replaced now by the cheerier melodies
from a myriad little Southerners' throats. Bat we are anticipating.

The wheels grind heavily at times when rumbling up and down hill, for the
recent rains have made the roads so soft and, in places, somewhat sloppy. Observe
those pied wagtails at yon roadside puddle. How oddly they flick their elongated
tails as they daintily run beside it. It may be there are some tiny midges gyrating
over the pools, which have smitten their fancy. They take to eratic wing on our
approach. Rooks have seriously settled to household duties. Such cawing from
daybreak until dusk returns is the order of the day ! surely the old elms never
could have had noisier tenants ! That small bright-brown birdie upon that haw-
thorn spray is a redstart — * firetail ' the natives call him. Its plaintive wheet-iuheet !
becomes a familiar sound in the woodland in the month of April.

Our steed pulls up at a horse-pond to take a sip. We spring out of the vehicle
impelled by curiosity to take a peep in amongst some fern-fronds uncurling to the
warmth of springtime. A tiny bird has just flown out, and upon a bramble is fussily
uttering its quick-repeated notes. It is a chiff-chaff. See ! in the stubbly remnants
of last year's grasses, snugly sheltered by the fern leaves, is its nest. Six small
creamy -white eggs are the treasures which have become a care to the half-fright-
ened, over-solicitous parent. Never fear, bonnie birdie ! we touch not such precious
objects. The chiff-chaff suddenly darts down in the thorny hedgerow. A shadow
as of a larger bird glides across the horsepond. We look up, and discover the
greater occasion of alarm in the shape of a hovering kestrel.

The speckled bird of prey might have had one eye upon the little percher,
with 'intent malicious,' but it certainly has had another upon a. venturesome
field-mouse in the mead beyond. Down like a stone it descends upon the hapless
rodent ; and as it hies away to some familiar rail stump, whereon to devour it at
its leisure, we can discern the wretched creature struggling in the bird's sharp
talons. In turn the kestrel takes to precipitate flight; its quick eye has detected
the approaching gamekeeper, who, silly man ! has sworn, some time or other, to
take away its life. Can he yet be so ignorant as to imagine this hawk is anything
else but one of the greatest friends of the farmer, and the rearer of our game-
birds? Several house-martins, conspicuous by the white upon their backs, on

APRIL I7V BROADLAND. 37

rapid wing dash up and down above the horse-pond, and disappear over the firs
that border it, and again as suddenly return.

We are afloat once again upon the -limpid waters of the Broad. Boxer is
munching his well-earned fodder in the reed-thatched stable behind the village

Fi-om Photo ly]

A DRAINAGE MILL.

[Mr. Payne Jennings.

inn: the knowing old animal enjoys a Broadland visit to the full. Signs of life
are showing everywhere around us. Last year's sapless, leaf-denuded reedstems
are growing thinner, and the remnants of those broken, and the debris of the
sedges and the rushes lie in a confused tangle, more inextricable than if woven
among them, upon the surface of the water. Left, unfortunately, to decay and

38 APRIL IN BROADLANV.

rot, and then to sink beneath, year by year this accumulation makes fresh soil,
and so as time rolls on the Broads become more circumscribed in area.

Thus it is that some of the smaller broads are now scarcely bigger than fish-
ponds. Gradually, but surely, if imperceptibly, the swampy margins have ex-
tended. Then appropriation commences. Ditches are cut, and pump-mills are
erected. Years long gone by the skeleton pump-mill did nearly all the work,
then the tower-shaped article came into vogue.

Powerful steam mills are now found cheaper to work and more effective. And
thus has.it happened that the erstwhile resort of snipe and bittern is covered with
waving grain ; and the partridge gleans amid the corn-stubble above spots where
the rudd and the bream, not many years before, were rooting and grubbing after
Jarvse and mollusca, amongst the sub-aqueous stems of reed and bullrush. Changes
similar to these have reclaimed the fens from a chaos of waters to fertile acres,
where sleek, fat kine deem life well worth the living ; and no sooner -does the
heavy rainfall swamp the lower corners, and fill the ditches, than the sails of the
quaint old mills are placed before the wind, and the excessive water is pumped, or
otherwise thrown by a huge water-wheel, into the sluices connected with the slug-
gish river. By this means miles of marshes, separated from the tidal river only by
a bank or ' wall,' themselves below the level of flood-tide, are kept free from inun-
dation.

As we slowly scull across the rippling waters of the Broad, we are roused from
our rather pessimistic reverie by a noisy tumult as of quarrelsome birds : a cuckoo
skims across a reed-bed to the terror or annoyance of some marsh-tits that had
been busy in among them. They join a mixed mob of tits and finches that are
already at its heels. Have they mistaken it for a hawk, or is it a protestation
against the cuckoo's fondness for usurping the rights of their little homesteads ?
A pair of black-headed buntings pass just above head. Several grebes are dis-
porting themselves in the water ahead of us. What a merry life is theirs when
unmolested! Their plumage is now at its best. Observe them through these
glasses. What curious crested heads of white and brown and black ; and what
slender snake-like necks ! One or two evidently are fishing. Let us lay-to beside
this tiny promontory on our right and watch them. There is a stake, left by
some angler, who no doubt had a mind to erect a { land-mark ' to some propitious
perch hole : tie the painter to it.

And now whilst discussing luncheon we shall have a better chance of observ-
ing the birds around us, for nothing conduces more to their hiding than the dodg-
ing to and fro of suspicious overlookers. What appetites the Broadland air gives

APRIL IN BROADLAND 39

birth to ! There ! it's just as we predicted. The grebes, emboldened by our silence,
have been paddling well this way. How rapidly they swim ! There's at least half-
a-dozen of them. Now they dive. One has suddenly appeared above water with a
juvenile roach between its mandibles. A couple fly past us in grotesque flight,
with necks extended, and with hanging feet. This characteristic bird of Broadland
was at one time in danger of extermination, when the craze for grebe-skin muffs
and trimmings was stronger than the dictates of humanity and reason. Keed-
warblers peer out from the yellow reedstems. They will shortly be nesting. But
we will forbear to trespass on their privacy. Weaving their cup of a nest when
the young green shoots are but a few inches above the waters, as we see them now,
and using some three or four as a kind of scaffolding, little by little it is lifted
as the reeds grow longer, until, by the time the greenish-white, brown-blotched
eggs have become replaced by the downy chicks that inhabited them, it is suspended
at least a yard in air !

A little bay sweeps away on our left. The clicking of the coots has some-
what subsided. Surely there must have been some scandal going on this morning
amongst them. See ! a dark object has just come out from the reeds into the
open water; another follows. Those white foreheads make the coots' identity
unmistakeable. Three or four red-billed moorhens are cautiously paddling in an
opposite direction. There now ! your clumsy stumbling on that oar has caught
their quick ears and vision. How the moorhens take to startled flight, trailing
their long feet upon the surface of the water until rows of bubbles follow their
receding forms ! The coots dive under and we see no more of them. They evi-
dently come up in the reedy phalanx where the eye cannot penetrate.

Behind the reed-bed is a clump of alders. Willows point upwards their slen-
der twigs. Behind them, and where the taller trees blot out the landscape beyond,
are some silver beeches, contrasting their slender grey trunks against the deep
green of the fir-trees which bear them company. On the topmost bough of one
of them a great blue heron has just alighted. What a grotesque fellow does he
appear as, balancing himself with his huge wings, he clutches the slender perch
with his big strong toes and claws ! Those beeches are as dead as can be. Some
years ago the herons nested in the branches, but the onslaughts of prejudiced
keepers ousted them, and they have elsewhere started their heronry. That fellow
yonder, with his beautiful ' apron,' is in magnificent plumage. He has simply
come to take a passing survey ; and will make up his mind, as he did last year,
that to build here his home will be useless. With a harsh ' Frank I ' he takes to
wing and winnows his way to some ditches where the frogs are making amorous

HERONS AT HOME.

APRIL IN BROADLAND. 41

gossip, or perhaps to a ' beck 'where the little rudd or roach are enjoying the
sunny warmth of the shallows. Failing these, the wakened newts or silvery stickle-
backs will suit him just as well.

We have tired of our survey, and again ply the oars. Hearken to the merry
carol of the lark! Those feebler but sweeter notes are the love-ditty of the black-
cap.— Splash ! A greenheaded mallard, followed by his plain, brown wife, startled
by the crackling of the reeds as our oar crashed in amongst them, flies up from a
narrow weedless pool in the midst of the reed-bed. What a grand fellow he looks
as he overtops the reeds ! Without a doubt, somewhere in the herbage beneath
the distorted branches of those dwarfed sallows, a nestful of pale green eggs is
snugly covered. Those straggling curled leaves are the advance guard of the
water lilies. We must drop in here again in the summer days when the full-
spread leaves are crowding the placid waters, and the beautiful white flowers are
resting upon the surface, and when the blue and yellow iris will be reproducing
their bright tints in their reflected shadows. Those pure white swans yonder are
contemplating nesting. Yon anglers are busy among the scaly inhabitants of the
Broad. We will not disturb them.

The swallows have been dashing here and there all day, and the plainer
sand-martins have been seen in goodly numbers. They seem to find enough to do
among the awakening insects, especially those which delight to dance in sportive
groups around and above the shooting broad-plants. They tell us of sunnier days in
store.

Let us steer into the narrow sluice which runs apparently close to the Broad-
margin. Landing on a low-lying boggy spot, we throw our painter round the
bole of a willow, and daintily pick our way along a sinuous path, the swampy soil
sinking beneath our tread. We must keep on moving or we shall come to grief
in the quaking bog. Place your feet upon the grassy tussocks. The sedge-birds'
notes are heard on every side. One anxious pair fussily fly around us, wishing us,
no doubt, begone. Titlarks tivit^uit overhead. Here we are upon terra firma.
At our feet stretches a well-weeded ditch, bright with the yellow kingcups ; great
sprawling toads are clambering over and among the watercress, trailing their long
gelatinous strings of ova; and a pair of yellow wagtails, in their resplendent golden
of springtime, are searching for the larvae of insects. Here is an old willow-stump
covered with small-leaved ivy. The sallows around us are adorned with woolly
buds, among which great humble-bees drone and gossip. Yonder lapwings have
laid their brown-speckled eggs in the furrow ; and those wood-pigeons, making
their way across the meadow, have already built their nests. Far away stretch

42

APRIL IN BROADLAND.

fertile fields, the wooded hills beyond them forming an abrupt horizon. Here and
there some grey and ivy-mantled church-tower marks the site of a village, the
red-tiled houses of which peer out from among the trees that guard it.

***** * *

Our horse's hoofs are once more smiting the road which trends towards the

smoky town. A small brick
bridge spans the tributary
river that loses its identity in
the narrow neck of a reed-
surrounded Broad. The very
reeds which line its banks
link their roots with those
which will be shortly wav-
ing their lanceolate leaves
over the waters of the lagoon.
A quaint Norfolk wherry lies
moored beside the little
staith against the bridge.
She is laden with bricks,
which have been carted up
from a neighbouring village.

A NORFOLK WHERRY.

APRIL IN BROADLAND. 43

A towy-headed wherryman, * topped' with, a red wool cap, makes a clumsy bow
and wishes us good-day. There is a refreshing smell of tea emanating from
the cabin door, and a curl of faint blue smoke is issuing from the red wooden
chimney.

'Oan't yow hev a cup of tea?' the good-humoured skipper queries, for he is a
quondam friend of ours. We acquiesce, and jumping down we deliver the reins
into the hands of his ' mate,' who has been sent ashore on purpose.

Was ever such a quaint and picturesque craft? The schuits of Holland are
not more in keeping with lowland scenery.

'I know yow like my old wherry — Topsy, you've told me so afore. Wai, she's
as rakish a craft as ever heeled to wind'ard, an' she'll sail as close to the wind as
any mortal thing afloat. I'm proud on her, and kape her as spick-and-span as
mop an' paint-brush'll make her. A heap of them London chaps have took her
picture, some with them likeness-fakers, and more 'an one ha' daubed her on a
canvas. They say, 'bor, as how there ain't our sort of wherry found nowhere else
in England. She's a bard of the broadland waters, sure-ly ! Wall, yer see, she's
built for lokel waters, and for lokel requirements. My craft, yow know, is my
livin' as well as my hobby. She's fifty fut in length, with a beam of twelve, and
scarcely draws three fut of water, an' '11 carry thirty tons. Except this cabin,
she's one long hold — the length of her. I don't suppose yow'll find any other
craft with such a big sail for her size as a Norfolk wherry. Yow was amused, I
know, with the for'ardness of the mast. But, yer see, it's nicely balanced by that
ton-an'-a-quarter of lead on its heel.

' That windlass runs it up an' lets it down, just as we may want to hist the sail
or lower the mast to get benean a bridge. That little flag atop is a famous tell-
tale, for it's the slightest puff as is wanted to show the way the wind goes. When
winds are fair we spin along like lightnin', and when they're contrariwise we hev to
tack, in course. And should they fail us altogether, we simply hev to stick down
the ' quant ' and, clappin' the shoulder agin it, walk the plank an' shove her along.
Twenty mile of that will make yer cough ! But for us many of the willages jindin'
the rivers would find freightage rather awk'ard. But lor, sir, wherryin's nothin'
near what it wor, for the railways have cut it up most awful. Still, as they doan't
run everywhere, and as we can bate them on the score of chapeness, we shan't die
out, us wherrymen, as yet. There's sights as oan't cum up to a fleet of wherries a
startin' from Yarmouth on the early flood; some carry in' general cargoes, others
corn, and others timber. It's a fine sight is seein' them cuttin' acrost old Breydon.

44 APRIL IN SROADLAND.

' So yow like my little cabin ; wal, 'bor, there's many a wus box 'an this to
sleep in, leastways, I sleep, and my mate — he snores fit to bust up the hatchways.
We're bachelors here, my mate an' me, you know, for his'n old woman lives up in
the town, and mine's fixed up in the \7illage seven mile from here. We've got all
the odds an' ends for cookin' an' comfort as we want. Jim ken make a puddin' or
a dumplin' — leastways he makes pretence at 'em, an' if you ken call a ball of wax
inside, kivered with a inch of sloppiness, he ken make 'em, an' no mistake. An'
what duke cud lie snugger 'an we do at night-time on these ere benches, with
proper toggeries to make 'em soft an' keep us warm ?

'An' my tea ain't bad, 'bor, for the leaves wor left in from Monday, and this is
Friday. Stop a minnit, let me take that bit of 'baccy off as is floatin' in yer cup ;
I'spect that's an old quid as dropped off the mantel-shelf! Now I'll just put the
pot aside on the hob for ' Smiler,' that's my mate, yow know. An' now for a pipe
o' baccy afore yow go, 'bor.'

A friendly gossip follows, in which the birds and beasties, and various items
that delight a Broadland Naturalist are discussed with mutual relish, but which
space forbids to detail. Two hours later Boxer is munching his hay in the stable
at home, and a savoury bloater, fresh down from the ' loves,' is engrossing our own
attentions.

THE RIVER 'TWISTERS.'

MAY IN BKOADLAND.

' Humble race of men,
Alike amphibious, by kind nature's hand
Forrn'd to exist on water and on land.'

— Life of a Fenmatij 1771.

HE river Yare runs its enormous torrent of dull brown waters, on a
sluggish ebb, into the German Ocean. The streams which focus them-
selves at Breydon, a huge backwater 2,000 acres in extent, are three :
the Yare (by some still named the Wensum), which trails its sinuous
stream through Norwich and Marshland, continuing its course to the
sea; the Bure, draining North-east Norfolk; and the Waveney, that
divides the county from its neighbour, Suffolk. These, with some smaller tribu-
taries, drain some fourteen hundred square miles of country. Excepting only
three or four, all the great freshwater lagoons, now so well known as ' The Norfolk
Broads,' are connected with these rivers; they cover nearly 5,000 acres, the rivers
offering nearly 200 miles of navigable waterways. Here's El Dorado, indeed, for
the yachtsman, the naturalist, and the tourist ! And to-day we will reach the
Broads by water.

Smiling May has burst upon us amid the merry music of birds, and clad in a
vesture of many-tinted greens. The hedgerows are bright with the white scented

46 MAT IJV BROADLAND.

blossoms of the hawthorn, the thorny stems of the dog-rose are adorned with
the pale pink petals, and festoons of the climbing honeysuckle fill the air with
fragrance. Here the droning bees delight to work, and the light-winged butter-
flies to dance and coquet. Cowslips dot the meadows, but in many places are
far out-numbered by the yellow crowfoot, which children delight to call the butter-
cup. On the hedge banks the azure-blue flowers of the germander are conspicuous,
whilst hard by the milkwort is pushing up its pink blossoms, and the humbler
red-nettle bears them company. Birds are singing their sweetest love-songs in
bush and tree and hedgerow, and above them soars the plainest bird of all, the
blithesome lark, but never a one can outdo him at a roundelay. A bright and
almost cloudless day of clear shining tinges all nature with sunshine. Our spirits
are in harmony with our surroundings.

On such a day as this we would make our way to the Broads. It is early yet
for yachting, but more than one ' white-winged ' craft shows its great glistening
sails above the lowlands that stretch away north and westwards from the town.
Those dark brown sails, which seem to rise out of the very marshes and glide this
way and that, denote the progress of the quaint Norfolk wherries along the course
of the serpentine Bure. Some friends of ours are about to indulge in a day's out-
ing upon the river, and we have accepted their invitation to bear them company
as far as they choose to ferry us. Thence we hope to boat our way across one of
the largest of the Broads, and return by rail.

Behold us bowling along under all canvas, the bonnie Lapwing cleaving her
way in gallant style through the rippling waters, the steady breeze pressing her
onward. Splendid boats are these Norfolk yachts, spreading plenty of canvas, with
tall, tapering masts, long gaffs, and longer bow-sprits, with plenty of counter, very
little keel, and enormous rudders. They are easy to handle, and in experienced

hands are a thing of beauty and a joy for as long as the breeze holds good.

But the bends of the river, as the stream winds its circuitous course, keep the man
at the tiller busy, for now we have to get upon this tack and then upon the other.
How bewilderingly the river ' twisters; ' we seem from time to time to be head-
ing for every point of the compass; now we're on our starboard, then our port side,
now beating up to wind'ard, then off we go again, spinning along so gaily, our great
sails bellying to the wind — then we tack again, the canvas fluttering like the wing
of some seabird shaking off the spray, until we catch the breeze again, and off we
go upon the other tack. But how jolly and exhilarating ! What a sense of buoy-
ancy and freedom we feel, unfettered for awhile from the conventionalities and the
restraints of society and of business !

48 MA Y IN SROADLAND.

We have left the many-gabled town behind us. The lower reaches of the
river are flat and uninteresting, the dull level beyond the river banks being
relieved here and there only by some grim old pump mill, some marshman's low-
built homestead, or a stile of gnarly timbers, against which sleek cattle rub their
sides and chew the cud. The marshes are alive with cattle. Now we pass a deeply-
laden wherry, with the skipper, quant at shoulder, shoving her round to catch the
breeze, whilst the mate, who mayhap is the good man's ' missus,' is leaning against
the tiller.

On we glide past riverside villages, with their windmills and ferries and clumps
of trees — the monotonously dull, flat scenery which, they tell us, savours so much
of that which is Dutch. From Stokesby onward the aspect changes for the better,
and pretty little nooks and corners, that many an artist has reproduced on canvas,
loom into view. Shooting through Acle bridge with lowered mast, we hoist sail
again, and still keep bowling along up the Bure until we reach Thurne mouth,
then on again up this tributary, past a picturesque half-barn, half-farmhouse, upon
which a clump of trees cast their shadows, and then past Womack Dyke, until we
reach Potter Heigham, where we moor. Here, after a jolly luncheon at the famous
hostelry which overlooks the river, we bid adieu to our yachting friends, who are
bent on making again for the Bare and sailing still further northwards.
o « « o e- e- o c- c- o

Gliding along over the clear shallow waters, margined by the yet short young
reeds of the year, above which the leafless, tottering stems of an older growth are
drooping and fast going to decay, we make for the open Broad. Splashing noises
in amongst them tell us that a shoal of bright-finned rudd are not far away from
us. We are not provided with tackle or we should not be able to resist the temp-
tation to throw them a baited hook. We fling in a few bread-crumbs, however, and
after them dash the bold, handsome finners. Kudd love these quiet waters, undis-
turbed as they are by rapid tides, where the tall reeds nod above sheltered pools.
They are sociable fellows with their species. Mayhap they are seeking a spawning-
ground, for they shed their ova in the early spring-time. A splash hard by, as of
a huge clog flinging himself into the water, is followed by a speedy dispersal of the
shoal. Look ! didn't you see that long-jawed head of a pike rise above the surface,
holding between his shark-like teeth one of the luckless fishes ? With a swirl of
his big forked tail, he is far below and is off to his snug lair, known only to him-
self, to devour his victim at his leisure.

Yonder Noah's-ark-like structure, moored beside the reeded * rond,' is the hut
of an eel-catcher. In the stern-sheets, just outside his cabin-door, sits the occu-

MAY IN BROADLAND.

49

pant, munching his noontide meal. He is a 'character' in his little way; and it
will repay us to get to wind'ard of him, and edge him into a gossip. He wishes
us ' the seal o' the day,' for your native, gruff as he may be, has a share of inbred
politeness. Our boat glides between some curiously perforated boxes, which float
round his strange houseboat, and ' crowds ' her stem into the wall of rushes at the
river-margin. A savoury aroma emanates from the cabin, an odour of fried eggs
and bacon, and bacon it is which lies spread upon the old man's platter. A big
bit of the earthenware has been chipped off it, but sufficient space remains to con-

ACLE OX THE BURE.

tain the huge slice of what was once partjof an aged porker — if guessing may be
reckoned trustworthy; and it is so fat that few besides an eel-man's stomach could
bear the infliction of digesting it. He sits awhile in silence with the plate upon
his knees, but keeps on ' champing ' with his remaining tooth-stumps. They are
on special duty this morning. After a little preamble, a desultory conversation
is kept up upon birds and fishes — such as share the wild watery wastes with him,
for he has been knowingly reckoning us up with those small grey eyes of his; and
we find him not only full of information, but exceedingly communicative. Dinner
meanwhile comes to an end, and leaning over the stern of his vessel he rinses his

50 MAY IN SROADLAND.

plate and sundries in the clear waters which float him; then tossing off a mug of
something that presumably is tea, although it looks uncommonly like liquid black-
ing, from long standing in the teapot with half a spout upon it, he steps back into
the ark and invites us inside for a continuance of our confab.

' This ain't the sort of shanty yew gents are used tu, but they suits us folks
as they're built for up to the knocker. I doan't suppose yow'd find theer likes
out o' the county. We look up an owd smack's boat, bodge her up a bit, then
rig her up with a ruf, an' surroundin's, an' tars 'em— an' theer yow are, 'bor — as
nobby a craft as yow'll find afloat. These 'ere benches as we're sittin' on sarve for
bedsteads ; a sack of sweet ' mesh ' hay an' a blanket or tew to tuck yerself in, and
I'll s waller my eel-pick if yow'll want much rockin' to find yer sleep in this 'ere
strong, pure air of Broadland.'

4 Yow smile at my jim cracks in the shape of furniture. Wai, it ain't much
as we want, 'bor — a mug an' a basin or tew, a teapot, a kettle, and a frying-pan,
with a knife an' a fork, so we doan't need to eat like Injuns— an' what more du
yer want ? Let rne rub my sleeve on that bit o' lookin' glass, for it's many a long
day as I seed inside it, and the smoke an' the steam ha' kinder dullened it. We're
rough an' riddy sort of folks, yer know, and livin' out here a lonesome Robinson
Cruzer kind of life wipes all the polish off of us. I doan't hev many wisitors, and
a owd man ain't many fancies; an' if folk doan't like it they ain't obliged to stop,
not as I means yow, gintlemen.'

A short clay pipe is found in the deep recesses of one of his waistcoat pockets
after much fumbling in its corners. It is harder work — so it appears, to find that
with which to load it. There is a hungry look in the old man's eye which seems
to ask for — ''bacca!' We hand him enough to fill his pipe, not once, but often.
The deep old fellow thaws yet more, and after incidentally remarking that 'it's
a tew-mile row to get a smoke when baccy ha' got to low-water,' he resumes his
patter :

* What's them holey boxes outside for ? Them's eel-trunks. Yow doan't need,
in course, to ax me what's my profession, of course yer doan't, for arf an eye's enough
to tell it. Boy an' man, like my father afore me, eel-cat chin' an' a few other odd-
ments has got me my livin' these fifty yeer an' more, and it's a mod'rate livin' at
most. But I get enuf to eat, an' pay my way, keepin' the old woman's cupboard
at home well filled — and what more du a fellow want, only to be thankful to our
hivenly Father as give him strength an' helth tu appreciate 'em. Babbin's mostly
my business jest now, and will be till the summer's over an' forgotten, and the eels
be makin' for the sea. Then we drop eel-sets in the river tu catch 'em when they're

MAY IN BROADLAND. 51

runnin I The eel-sets are suffin like a big trawl net, with the mouth athwart the
river; into it the scrigglers swim, and down tu the poke end they wriggle. In course
we take good care by manes of proper contrivances to puzzle 'em how tu git out
agin. Dark, wet September nights are the best for this fishin', especially if a bit
of thunder keeps a rumblin'. In a good season tons of eels are taken an' sent tu
the London markets. Them cockneys dote, so they tell me, on 'em.'

' What's babbin' like, 'bor ? Wai, I'll tell yow. It's as aisy as aisy if yer only
knows how. Yow get some worams, as yow kin any damp night when they turn
up on the grass tu 'mardle.' Yow want a lantern an' a tin, and yow want ter look
lively, for they sune pop in agin. When yow want to 'bab' yow make a ;bab.'
And this is how yow du it — I might as well show yer, for I shall be a babbin' tu-
night down hinder.'

Taking out a tin of lively worms, and finding up some thread and a needle, he
begins impaling each unhappy victim, making quite a festoon of them. We try
to watch the operation without a shudder: he evidently thinks he is putting the
worms to very little inconvenience.

'Yow then bunch 'em up like so — ' (winding them round his fingers) 'an' tie
up in a knot, fix on yer sinker, an' theer yow are. Tie the lot on the end of yer
line, bob it up an' down till you feel an eel a chuckin', then heave hirjx up gently
an' drop him in yer boat, which he'll du, when his teeth git disintangled. We
sumtimes catch tew or three stone a night. Sumtimes never a eel, 'bor. Them
boxes outside we pop 'em intu, where they doan't seem wery uncomfortable, for
the tide goes through 'em, 'cos they're riddled with holes; then when we want to
sell 'em, there yow are, yer see!

1 What about the winter? Wai, we go a-pickin' for sich eels as have buried
theerselves in the mud, 'bor, for all doan't travel seawards. Here's a eel-pick.

' Eels is rum things — lor, they're as big a mystery as anything I knows on.
Some say they grows from hoss-hairs: some say they've young 'ens — I doan't
believe nayther. Why, I've seen under a magnifier what folks calls the fat of the
eel, and it's no more nor less than eggs. The ' over ' (ova), as a gent called it,
don't grow wery big till the eels are in the deep seas — where they spawn, goodness
only knows where; and where the old 'uns go after is just as big a wonder. Any-
way, I've seed little totty eels not bigger nor darnin' needles, and yow can see
through 'em, coming up the shallows from the sea in thousands in the springtime.

Much more eel-lore is dispensed, which space forbids to detail. As we are
leaving the old man in his lonesome hut, to step into our boat, a kingfisher

52

MAT IN BROADLAND.

dashes off the end of an oar which has been lying akimbo, and with a startled
scream is lost in a bend in the reed-bed. Some tiny scales sparkle upon the
blade, which we examine more closely. The kingfisher, unnoticed by us and
accustomed, perhaps, to the eel-babber's voice, had evidently been fishing from our
oar-blade: here is certainly proof positive that he has had a little fish for dinner.
Some coots that have waxed bold enough to venture out in the open, disappear as

AN EEL-CATCHER'S HUT.

if by magic, and a couple of red- billed moorhens dash off with more precipitancy
than caution, trailing their feet in the water as they widen the distance between
us. Yonder flies a heron. Let us row for the far side of the Broad. But for the
sounds of bird-life, the quietude would become oppressive, such strange music is
borne on the wings of the wind — harsh wild cries, jarring notes, and the sweeter
sounds of bird-song. It is the season of love. Each little songster is vying with
its fellows in making cheerful harmony. Even the rooks in the tall trees yonder

MAT IN BROADLAND. 53

seem to think their efforts praiseworthy. But they are appropriate to the scenery
around, as are the harsh notes of the grebes and waterfowl. The reed-bunting
and the sedgewarbler, and many another of their kindred from over-sea are present
with us ; some are flitting in among the branches of the trees which border the
mossy swamps that margin the Broad, others are busy in among the remnant of
reed-stems seeking a location for safe nesting. Many are already engrossed with
the cares of domestic life.

We pull round a bend in the interminable reed-bed, and find ourselves in a
quiet corner of the Broad. It is a veritable little ' straits,' connecting this one
with another. Willows are reflecting their pointed leaves in its depths, reeds and
sedges in its sunny recesses are growing more luxuriantly than in the open Broad.
A ricketty foot-bridge spans the farther end and on it is sitting a hawk-like bird,
which presently takes to flight. Its ringing notes betray its identity; it is a
cuckoo. Some lapwings pass overhead : they are nesting in an adjacent meadow.

Hush ! do you not see that big brown creature sitting beside a bank on a
boulder of grass-fringed soil that has broken away from it ? It is an otter. Grently !
Just peep at him through these glasses. He is busy at dinner : that fish he appears
enjoying so much is undoubtedly a tench. The otter knows where good fish and
quietude are to be had. There now — he has spied us, and with the slightest effort,
and without a splash, he has dived into the water, and will not come up until he
has reached his lair in some rush-covered corner. House-martins and swallows are
dashing to and fro, as they have been all day long. Here they appear to be especi-
ally busy, for many a lace- winged fly is taking its earliest springtime airing; and
larvae cases floating upon the surface of the water are familiar objects to the lynx-
eyed naturalist. There is a shoal of small gudgeon; they are feasting merrily upon
heedless little insects which appear to delight in touching the water in their joy-
ous play: gnats and midges are among the number. There goes, high overhead,
a swift — and another. Hearken to their wild screaming !

Don't you see that moorhen peering out from behind that willow bole ? He
has a nest somewhere close by it, let us paddle up and see if we can find it. The
cunning thing has vanished, but here is its inartificial nest : it is made of reed-
flags and sedges matted together. Nine bufnsh-white eggs dotted with red-brown
contain the fondest hopes of most attentive parents. A faint peepy cry emanates
from among them. Why ! one egg is chipping, and a tiny pair of red mandibles
are poking their way into a world of trouble. If half of those black downy chicks,
which will soon be demanding incessant care and attention, escape the onslaughts
of pike and a host of other enemies, they will do well.

54 MAY IN BBOADLAND.

We may not loiter to inspect the swamp where the white swans are nesting —
if we do we shall not be welcomed by them — nor hunt for a great grebe's floating
egg-basket. Much that we see and do must remain unknown, save by ourselves,
for our space forbids it. We could linger yet, but the time has sped, and our

watches are pointing well towards train-time.

o o o «- c- •.-'•".• o o

Behold us at eventide, in the middle of May, sculling in a gun-punt up Brey-
don, making for one of the ' drains ' which at low-water vein its muddy breast.
The tide is rising, and the * flats ' by the hundred acres are disappearing below the
flood. Here and there the ' lumps,' still dry and uncovered, are gradually growing
less in area. Strange whistles and call-notes are heard as many a long-legged
wading bird is ousted from its feeding ground and compelled to seek a drier
location, for when too deep for walking it must needs swim or flit — which latter it
prefers to do.

The spring migration has set in, and many a northward-bound bird drops in
upon us, amongst them the whimbrel, knot, and dunlin, the turnstone, grey plover,
and pigmy-curlew, and many another. These, attracted by so fine a feeding-
ground, drop in awhile and refresh themselves, and proceed upon their journey.
Many a rarer bird, attired in its springtime best, mingles with the commoner
herd. But close-time has thrown its protecting clauses around them, and they
remain unmolested by the gunner who envies them their jackets. The bird-stuffer
now loses his richest plumaged specimens. There was no close season until well into
the 70's.

Let us draw to the highest of the l lumps : ' all else is covered with the
water. Here the birds are making their last stand prior to betaking themselves
to the marshes, the sea-shore, or still farther away. What a medley of notes, and
what a concourse of birds are before us ! There runs a turnstone— there are six
of them at least. Those mellow call-notes denote the presence of several ring-
plovers, and their black gorgets also betray them. Grrey plovers, some curlews,
dunlins, and others are also identified. What sooty long-winged birds are they
which now dropped in at the water's edge ? They are black terns, and the species
once nested in Broadland. And those pearly-backed, swallow-like sea-birds with
them are Arctic terns. They are tame enough, poor things ; what havoc a gunner
might make in their serried ranks! Day after day, till the month is out, will such
birds be seen if the winds blow fair — from the east at any point. With westerly
winds continuously blowing fewer and fewer birds will put in an appearance. He
is a lucky man who chance-time sees here the beautiful avocet, the quainter spoon-
bill, and the lordly stork. The day is spent ; darkness covers all, and nothing
now denotes the presence of the birds but their weird wild notes.

JUNE IN BROADLAND.

'And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,
And the wave- worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marsh flowers that throng
The desolate creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with eddying song.

AYEST of the months of the year, smiling June dawns upon us garlanded
with roses; the fields and woods and hedges are glowing with the warm
touch of her fingers, and all nature seems joyous and light-hearted.
There is the slightest ripple upon the surface of old ocean, and a faint
murmur falls on the ear as the tiny wavelets l crowd ' each other, as if
in play, upon the shingly shore.
In Broadland there is quietude, save as the birds make merry music, and the
lowing kine join in with deeper bass, and the bleating of sheep is heard — or save
when the playful wind whispers in the tree-tops, that here and there fling their
shadows upon the placid waters below, and it bustles up and down the crowded
ranks of pale green reeds until from among their leafy stems, waving and rustling,
arises a murmur that reminds us of the gentle plashing of the wavelets upon the
sea-beach.

On such a morning we find ourselves at the railway station securing tickets
for a jolly day's outing in Broadland. Ere long we are being borne through furzy
and bracken-covered sand-hills, beyond the valleys of which are caught glimpses
of the deep blue sea — now across fields where the dark green corn is growing,
sometimes shut in for a brief space by trees and tall hedgerows, but more often
rumbling along in the open, with miles and miles of landscape stretching away on
either side of us, with the distance softened off into foliage, from among which,

5G JUNE IN BROADLAND.

here and there, peers out a grey church tower like an aged sentinel keeping watch
upon the quiet village which clusters round the hallowed pile.

We have fallen in with genial company to-day. A genuine Broadland Natur-
alist has chosen the same compartment ; he is bent on a day's hard work among
the insects and wild flowers (if such a labour of love deserves the title, and for the
capture and accommodation of which he appears amply provided), which buzz and
bloom in the fens and wildnesses of Broadland. He is certainly a character in his

THE CHURCH AMONG THE TREES.

way, a small spare-built man, past the middle of life, with shoulders bent and be-
tokening that some sedentary occupation has for long been his lot in life, and years
of hard honest toil have made his large hands gaunt and bony. We are not long
edging him into a pleasant confab, and the hard lines upon his intelligent face relax
somewhat as he instinctively feels himself in company with kindred spirits. He
waxes eloquent upon the delights of Broadland.

i You may have your rugged awe-inspiring mountain scenery, your wild rocky
fastnesses if you choose, not that I have ever been amongst them, except in books

JUNE IN BROADLAND. 57

of travel, but I can pretty well reckon what they'd be like; but give me my low-
lying, marsh-covered, reedy Broadland, where the redshank, the coot, the grebe,
and the lapwing ring out their strange weird cries. The land of the bullrush and
the water-lily has delights for me that I am positive no other could possess.

* These fifty years have I spent, boy and man, amongst snips of leather; lasts
and lapstone were my toys in childhood, and they get me my living now. Thump!
thump ! thump! Snobbing is dull monotonous labour, to be sure, from morning
to night, with the smell of leather beneath your olfactories; but a man must live by
the sweat of his brow. But then, sir, when one does manage to get his leg loose
from the boot-strap, and let it and the other stride and scamper out in the open
country on such a day as this, why, how much lighter becomes the burden of life,
and what a pleasant little oasis in its dreary routine, to be sure it is ! — not that I
am unhappy or discontented, by any means, for the fruits of many a jaunt in
Broadland surround me when at my labour, in the shape of well-preserved speci-
mens, which stir up many a pleasant recollection of sunny days and jolly doings
among the flowers and insects, the birds and molluscs, in times gone by. To accom-
plish much real work as a naturalist, a man needs to be above the necessity of
earning his daily bread, and the time should be his own ; but then, sir, there's this
about it, when one's destined to earn his livelihood by close, hard, grinding labour,
because fortune failed to smile upon his predecessors, he cannot afford to quarrel
with her. Labour! well, one has got used to it by this time, without the comfort
or inconvenience of having grown any the richer, for competency is not won, you
know, by snobbing; but there's this to be said of it, its more a matter of hand
than head-work. You can sit and thump, and think and thump, and plan and
meditate between them to your heart's content, which can't be said of every occu-
pation. It comes hard where a man hasn't a hobby, or any mental employment,
and nothing to anticipate in event of a holiday, then the humdrum becomes a bore.
That's why so many of my fraternity grumble about life's monotony over their pipe
and pot, and engender discontent against their fellow-men and the good Grod
above us all, who never destined man, I am quite convinced, to be unhappy,
whatever sphere of life He placed him in. Sir, there is dignity in labour.'

Such is a sample of the interesting chat our loquacious friend unreels, and
we regret our paths diverge as we step out from the village platform. Whistling a
merry song, away hies the little man with the nets and wallet — which contains
his store-boxes and bottles, and the hundred other little knick-knacks that go to

H

58 JUKE IN BROADLAND.

form a naturalist's outfit. It is well for him that his captures will be light, even
if numerous, for the paraphernalia he carries is sufficient weight of itself.

The lanes are now in the zenith of their beauty — the humble-bee and his
kindred, and a host of meadow-brown, tortoise-shell, and other butterflies dance and
gossip and glean among the bright flowers which dot the hedgebanks and push out
their gay petals from between the stouter growth that would obscure them in their
quest of sunshine. There is a wealth of colouration on every hand; the yellow
hawkweeds have opened their starry flowers, and are smiling in the scraggiest of
places,

' Where sweet air stirs

The bluebells lightly, and where prickly furze-
Buds lavish gold.'

A hundred others lend their charms to make the countryside beautiful; above them
all tower the sweet-scented honeysuckle, and the pale pink flowers of the dog-rose.
The meadows beyond are made gay with sorrel, and many another familiar wild
plant; while lazy bovines, wading amid luxuriant grasses, are enjoying their brief
existence, eyeing yonder farmer, and the butcher's man in blue, without the slight-
est suspicion that their happy days are numbered.

The ditches are brimful of life, from sluggish tadpoles and flashing stickle-
backs, down to the tiny Volvox and the unseen Rotifera and other animalculse.
Our naturalist has by this time, doubtless, filled some of his bottles with specimens,
for we noted him groping and dredging at a ditchside soon after we parted com-
pany. This very dyke trends away Broadwards, and possesses in miniature many
of the features which characterise those great lagoons. Here are some yellow
water-lilies (Nuphar lutea), their small golden cups contrasting prettily with the
dark ovate leaves from which they lift their heads; forget-me-nots are sprinkled
along the edge of the crowding reeds, and taller irises, with spangles of yellow and
blue, look down upon them, whilst above all nod and rustle the green spear-leaves of
the reeds, and around them tiny insects sport and play to the profit of many a swal-
low and sandmartin that are dashing to and fro. A kingfisher hurries away from a
willow-bole at our approach, the ruddy hues of his breast reflecting in the water
below him, his emerald wing and tail-coverts appearing like streaks of burnished
metal as he flies in a bee-line to some shady nook he knows of.

Some tiny black animals, too quickly for the eye to follow them, plunge into
the still waters like so many stones. They are water-shrews — and are, of all our
British mammalia, the most secretive in their ways and habits. We have not time
to loiter longer or we would certainly try and steal a march upon them. We have

JUNE IN BHOADLAND. 59

noticed many a young bird of the year as we came along— for the first birds have
been started off to earn a livelihood on their own account — little tits and larger
finches, not nearly so brightly plumaged as they hope to be next springtime, dot
the hedgerows, forage in the herbage below them, or fly on hasty wing hither and
thither. Insects are swarming, and well it is they are so, or the insectivorous birds
would go to roost hungry ; and the seed-eaters are now revelling in plenty.

* * *• * * o # o

It is pleasant to glide softly on the rippling waters, scarce dipping the oars
beneath the surface. The hum of life and the rustle of vegetation are soothing to

A QUIET CORNER.

the jaded toiler; a day's outing like this is rest and balm to both body and mind.
Let the boat drift whither she will, we are not tied to any special ' doing ' to-day.
Not that we would kill time, but it is delightful to feel ourselves once more away
from the worry and the bustle and the conventionalities of town life, and for the
nonce to leave ledgers and hammers and scales and yard-sticks away in that chaos
of brick and mortar where even the sparrows are sooty and the flowers and trees
are dusty, and what little of nature is forced to breathe and grow in such uncon-
genial atmosphere seems pining for the purer air and sunlight of the country.

60 JUNE IN BROADLAND.

There certainly is not much that is awe-inspiring in these great solitudes, and
there is a strange sameness about them all ; but they are lovely with a beauty
peculiarly their own. Grand indeed are these great indented ovals of silvery water,
apparently shut out from the rest of the busy workaday world by an interminable
belt of reed and sedge and bulrush, and an environment of stunted woodland, where
you might almost imagine dull care and the strife of life would scarce find a loop-
hole for an entrance. Yonder is our friend the fenman's cottage standing upon the
higher ground, with its fore-shore sloping to the water's edge in autumn; the tree?
on one side shake their leaves into it. Great white ducks are guarding their young
broods in the sluice which trends towards the house, and several geese are cropping
the grass near by them. The old punt is away to-day. Towards eventide we may
expect the return of the master, for this morning Jem Trett's at 'haysel;' he is yet
hale and hearty, and the old lady has something in the cupboard to which he will
do ample justice on his return in the evening with his boat piled up with gladdon
and other coarse herbage, to be used as litter in the pigsty, and bed for the- ancient
donkey whose scraggy appearance would suggest him to be as aged as his patron.
Yonder is an artist at work with brush and maul-stick. Let us run the boat ashore
and saunter towards him. A moorhen flutters out of the little reedbed as our oar
sweeps through it; beneath, a shoal of small roach dash away in affright, all making
for the open broad. Our friend of the easel is throwing on his canvas a delightful
bit of scenery. In the foreground big broadleaved sedges dip their reflex in a pool
of crystal, above them is a willow's drooping foliage, tall graceful reeds on the right
lose themselves in the background in a cul-de-sac of alders, whilst a plank-bridge,
with a rustic fencing, is thrown across the pool. A trio of black-headed gulls show
up boldly against a bit of blue sky. Was ever such a lovely little corner-piece ?
Our artist friend is loud in the praises of Broadland. An aged man, bent with many
years, wending his way from the fenman's cottage, sidles up to us and expresses his
opinion upon the picture, as well as upon the state of things in general.

6 Wai, 'bor, yow ha' done that ar' suffin proper. WThat nimble fingers some folk
hev, tu be sure ! I might ha' tried these seventy yeer an' more to ha' done that,
an' cudden't,' says Jem Trett's elder brother, for the merest tyro of a physiogno-
mist could have told his relationship to the old man of the fens.

1 Ah ! 'bor, these 'ere Broads,' he continues, * aren't what they wor fifty yeer
ago, not at all, they ain't like the same; not as the water is different, or the bards
an' other critters ha' altered, although there's summat wrong with them, there
ain't so many on 'em as there was by a wery long chalk. Talk of carryin' a gun
noii'adays, why, it ain't no use at all, but a waste of good powder an' time — time

JUNE IN BROADLAND. 61

was when I wor a youngster, we cud du a bit of shootin'. In this wery neighbour-
hood I ha' put up five ' bottle-bumps ' (bitterns) in a day, an' shot three on 'em,
an' thowt nothin' on it. Now, if one is heerd on, every man Jack as shoulders
a shootin'-iron is on the rampage arter it. Why ? 'Cos they're scarce, and gents
ha' got a craze for 'em for stuffin' 'em, like as they hev them pretty black an'
white avocets. I've heerd my father say as how them long-legged critters built
their neesen by them trees out hinder, an' a lot of old herons built in the treetops,
which seems a funny thing for a waterbard tu du. Why are the bitterns an' them
no longer plentiful? Why, ain't they drained the meshes (marshes) an' the low-
lands, turnin' thousands of acres into pastures and cultiwation ? I've heerd my
owd dad say — an' true it wor tu —

4 For we shall rue it, if 't be true

That Fens be undertaken ;
An' where we feed in Fen an' reed,
They'll feed both beef an' bacon.'

An' don't they ? Besides, there ain't the lay (shelter) for the bards theer
was; would yow cum here, Mr. Painter, if yow cuddent git a place worth the
daubin' on that 'ere pictur' ? Wai, that's the way with them. As tu them clinkers
(avocets), I've heerd the old man say, them chaps as fish for salmon up in New-
castle was the cause o' they a-leavin' ! indeed, they wor wiped out clean for the
sake o' their feathers, as was made up into artificial flies. We see one now an'
again, so we du a bittern, but they are furreners, as only cum over in April and
May. If they don't stop they git kilt, and then they're obliged tu, sure-ly.

1 Lor, gentlemen, times is altered altogither. See them geese hinder? Yeers
ago we used tu rear thousands, afore iron an' brass pens was made. We bred 'em
for their quills an' feathers, and gozzards (goose-herds) were as much thought on
an' wanted as shepherds is tu-day. We plucked 'em alive four or five times a year,
fust at Lady-day, for body an' wing feathers, t'other times for body feathers only.
The young 'ens we broke in even at six weeks old by pluckin' out theer tails. Cruel ?
Wai, 'bor, I s'pose yow'd reckon it wor, and p'raps it was. But yer see things ivor
different then. Yow can't whack a stubborn owd dicky now, so I've heerd say,
athowt a man in brass buttons hevin' yer afore the beaks. Pritty how tu du ! An'
then there's everything else as is gone wrong. We used tu burn dried cow dung
an' hovers (peat); now we hev' coals, in course — them puffin-Billies (trains) ha'
turned all that over, not as that matters much. Theer's a change tu they ha' made.
We used to be quiet here once, 'bor, but now see what swarms of folks a holiday-
makin' they turn in upon us. Yachtin' I kin du with, providin' them chaps in

62

JUNE IJV BROADLAND.

blazers on 'em doan't overdu it. But I hate them steamers as upsets every mor-
tal thing, tearin' through the water like nobody knows what, frightenin' bards,
an' scarin' fish, an' playin' the wery trundle up with everything. Theer ain't the
fish in the rivers theer wor, for how kin the spawn, dashed an' knocked about by
the swell among the reeds, ever cum tu life? Then them landowners as hev'been
pullin' the string, closin' up the Broads for shootin' an' fishin', and tellin' yer yow

mustn't go heer nor theer. Why, it's sheer robbin',of us, it is, of our rights. I've
heerd say,

'The law locks up the man or woman

As steals a goose from off a common.

But lets the bigger robber loose

As nicks the common from the goose.'

*An' I doan't know as that ain't the way things are goin' on everywhere else.
Ah, gentlemen, things are goin' wrong — altogither wrong!'

Much more does the ancient fellow unreel of his yarn of things that have
long since vanished, regretting the passing away of old times as a calamity to be
bewailed. But we humour him, for an old man has his weaknesses; he loves to

JUNE IN BROADLAND. 63

talk, and grumble, and ruminate. And why shouldn't he ? He too, like the old
order of things, will soon have stepped into the obscurity of the past, with his
quaint attire and quainter ways, and his store of ancient history.

We are once again afloat, leaving the artist to listen to the rest of the old
man's rhapsody. Coots, moorhens, swans, grebes, and various hedge-birds are
seen and watched in turn. In a corner of the Broad we come across a brace of
young urchins, busily catching small roach and tiny gudgeon. And right merrily
the truants, for no doubt the schoolmaster will know them well as such, are haul-
ing out the hungry finners with an osier twig and a bit of string, upon which a
bung is made to serve the purpose of a float. With their towy heads, plump
naked legs, and ruddy cheeks, the youngsters look the very picture of health and
carelessness. They will trot home betimes to receive a drubbing, no doubt, and
a * hunk o' bread ' for supper, and make, perhaps, as little fuss over the one as
they will ravenously enjoy the other. May care sit as lightly on their shoulders
in the days to come as it does to-day! Hosts of black-headed gulls are making
merry on the Broad. Some are washing their spotless plumage in its cool waters,
others are apparently at rest, whilst many' are -taking exercise on airy pinions, for
they have no doubt been spending long, tiring, hopeful hours upon their large
brown-speckled eggs. Not far away from here, on a swampy island, hundreds of
nests may be found containing eggs in every stage of incubation, and many of
them already are tenanted by the yellow downy puff-balls of chicks. These birds
at breeding time are strictly preserved; many hundreds of the earlier eggs are
taken by the keeper, and realise a goodly sum ; they are not bad eating. The
eggs are laid in a cavity formed by trampling down the broken tops of the reeds
and sedges, and generally number three. It is a sorry time for grubs and worms
for miles around when the gulls come home to their breeding-grounds; they
scour the countryside for many a mile; and Farmer (riles looks upon them with a
kindly eye.

Thick clouds have been piling up in the west, and big raindrops dancing on
the surface of the water warn us to seek shelter from the coming storm. We
pull away hard for the staith, and reach it not a little moist, for the shower is
pelting down in a seeming hurry.

Right gladly we rub shoulders with our naturalist friend of the morning as

JUNE IN BROADLAND.

we enter the village station, and it is a right good time he treats us to over the
'luck' he has had in his day's perambulation. Need we say we offer no negative
to a pressing invite to turn over with him at nightfall the treasures he has been
collecting.

BLACKHEADED GULL (Larus ridibunclus).

JULY IN BROADLAND.

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
0 Bure ! that anglers all may see

As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river, come to me.'

MID a blaze of colouring, and beaming with sunshine, July makes its
advent in the 'Land of the Broads.' A thousand forms of insect-life
hum and drone its praises as they dance and flirt in the sunlight; a
legion of wild-flowers open their petals and welcome its warm kisses.
In town and city the heat has become oppressive, and hosts of holiday
makers crowd down to the sea-shore and the country in quest of rest
and health. We, too, would banish awhile the worries and cares of town -life
and take a longed-for respite from them. Broadland, with its quiet waterways and
quieter lagoons, is to us far preferable to the more animated resorts where, even
in their hard-earned leisure, each yet jostles against the shoulders of his fellow.
Give us the silent-flowing river and the silvery lake, where the ripple laps sooth-
ing music around the white-winged vessel, and the tall reeds rustle and sough as
the playful winds sway them to and fro.

Our friend the artist is still at work on the Broads with brush and palette;
indeed, so busy is he that he has banished himself awhile from society, and in his
quaint Noah's ark of a house-boat is living afloat, taking his house as the snail
takes his, wherever he may feel disposed for the time to settle. Grladly have we
agreed to spend a day or two with him.

Our old acquaintance, the wherryman, most fortunately, is about to loose the
lopsy from her picturesque moorings near the old North Tower, taking advantage
of the early flood. He has recently brought down a cargo of oak-billet — timbers

66 JULY IN BROADLAND.

in three or four feet lengths of the more slender boughs which are useless for saw-
ing into boards. These lie piled upon the quay in a distorted stack; a couple of
guernsey-coated fellows are busily loading a barrow-cart from it, their destination
being a fish-curing house. That billet, in the autumn, will give out volumes of
dense smoke beneath thousands of North Sea herrings, turning with its pungent
qualities silvery fishes into delightful tit-bits for the breakfast table, and into
bags of gold for those who cure them. In its place the Topsy has now a generally
assorted cargo.

Merrily clinks the winch as the enormous brown sail slowly expands itself, and
the gaff is run well up the great mast. 'Let her go ! ' shouts the skipper to his
mate, who lets her go, loosing her by a dexterous jerk of the rope, which lifts its
eye clear off the mooring-stump ; this is pulled aboard and stowed away. As soon
as we clear the surrounding buildings we catch the breeze, and away like a thing
of life the Topsy glides, cutting the water as a ploughshare slides through the
crumbling earth. It is blowing a fair wind to-day, and right quickly we pass the
objects on the river-banks. Sleek kine stare wonderingly at us from beside gnarly-
timbered stiles, here and there a marshman's cottage and its surrounding alders
looms into view, and then a drainage mill.

' Tree-and-twenty miles, 'bor, oan't take us long tu du tu-day if the wind holds
good,' says the skipper. ' So 'tis Stalham yew're bound for; wal, that wor lucky,
as I happen tu be goin' theer tew. What a rummen yer painter friend is. I
never seed a feller rub on the colours same as he du, so quick tew; why, afore he ha'
run his brush over half a dozen times yew seem tu know the wery place as is comin'.
Here's a pictur as he done the t'other day an' gie me, there's his house-boat wi' the
chimley. Front on it is old Tyke Barber's yawl, with his eel-set aboard it. Agin
her bows is a gun-punt. In course that's me a-sitting in the boat. How natural
them reeds a-frontin' us look, doan't they ? Some are growing straight, others a
leanin', and them broken ones look as real as they wor. 'Bor, how I larfed one day
as he wor a sketchin' on a rond (Dutch rand). He'd jest finished his pictur', an' gone
aboard for suffin' leavin' it on the sticks. An owd cow as wor munchin' close agin
it walked up an' took a boss at it. She seed the grass an' sich like, and a likeness
of a small brown calf. What did she du, 'bor, but begin lickin' it, thinkin', no
doubt, as how that wor one. Yer friend cum out savage enuf an' shied a bucket
at her. Yow would a larfed — I did — tu see that old hussy hain up her tail an' dance
across the rond like as if she enjoyed the fun tu.'

The wind meanwhile has been increasing. Our craft has all the sail she can
carry; our leeward plankway is under water. A sudden squall, a regular ' Roger,'

JULY IN BROADLAND.

67

for which our men are prepared, strikes us; and heavy rain drops down from an
overcast sky. Some yachtsmen ahead are not so fortunate, they have run aground.
They hail us as we pass them, but we are going too rapidly to be able to give them
a helping hand. Now a bridge rises up ahead of us, with a single low arch.

4 Stand by the winch, Jem. Now lower, my hearty, and let her go.' Down
rattles the great tanned wing, the parrel is taken off, and the jaws of the gaff
moved aside. Jem now casts off the fall of the forestay tackle from the cleat on
the block. Balanced so well that a child could sway it in its tabernacle, the great

A WATERSIDE RENDEZVOUS.

mast sinks slowly down as the ton-and-a-quarter of lead on its heel rises into view.
The skipper's hand is on the tiller, and with his keen blue eye he judges to an
inch his bearings. Straight through the arch like an arrow the good vessel shoots,
with barely a foot to spare above head. So nicely, too, has the time been judged
that our mast has but reached its level when our bows have entered the archway.
No sooner is our helm clear than the mast is raised and the sail is up, and we are
on again as fast as ever; indeed, we've scarcely lost way at all.

Pass we eel-babbers on their way to some favourite babbing-ground for the
night's fishing; on past mills and houses, between long thin beds of reeds and

68 JULY IN BROADLAND.

sedges, each turn in the river bringing to view fresh aspects; and presently we
find ourselves nearing our destination. A passenger-boat, crowded with excursion-
ists, goes by us, its screw throbbing and churning up the dark waters, leaving in
its wake a great curling swell that licks the crumbling bank on either side and
follows the boat in its progress. These excursion-boats are doing immense
damage to our river banks.
##*# * * # * #

We are not left standing long at the village staith ere our artist-friend rows
up in his little dinghy; stepping gingerly in, we are very soon on our way to his
floating domicile. The wind has lulled considerably, and the rain has ceased to
fall. All around looks fresh and beautiful, and the setting sun, as if loath to leave
the world without a parting smile, paints the west with a glow of red and golden.
A swan comes fussily up, ruffling his snow-white plumage, and threatens us with
every mischief, only he fails to keep his promise. His mate, with a brood- of dark
downy cygnets, is beside yon reedy bank. A couple of flappers (young ducks) start
out from a clump of rushes and take a short flight across the Broad. Sedge-birds
are piping their last short songs of the day. A heron, trailing its long thin legs
behind it, has taken towing at our approach, his great awkward wings bearing him
away to some quieter location. On our right stretches a patch of water-lilies,
their large flat leaves covering thickly the surface of the water; there are the
great open flowers, white as the snows of winter, lifting their beautiful heads above
them. Here in the glorious morning sunshine in mazy flight dance and coquet
many an insect, whilst blue metallic carnivorous dragon-flies take erratic flights
amongst them, and the swallows dash hither and thither. Great cautious roach
prowl below in search of larvae, the former scrupling not to make a snatch at some
insect momentarily resting upon the water. Coots and moorhens, which clicked
and croaked all day long in the shelter of the reeds and sedges, are mustering their
chicks around them and venturing out into the open water. Starlings are settling
in the reeds for their night's napping. What a murmur as of the sea their wings
make among the reed-stems as our oar accidentally sweeps through the outside
edge ! The first broods of the sand-martins will soon drop in and share their strange
roosting-places with them. Eeed-warblers are singing all over the Broad, and a
sedge-warbler here and there joins in with a louder melody. Overhead the noc-
tule-bat shows his frittering wings dimly against the waning light; the cockchafers,
for which he seeks in droning flight, are out on their nocturnal rambles. The
barn-owl and the field-mouse, on which he preys, are afield together. The crake
of the land-rail becomes familiar. The stars twinkle out one by one, and the moon

JULY IN 13ROADLAND.

60

peers from behind the riven clouds whose edges she has been tinging with silver.
A slight breeze rustles soothingly through the reeds and sedges, fanning our cheeks
with its cool breath as it passes by us.

STAUJAM DYKE.

We have been watching many of these changes from the stern-sheets of our
artist-friend's house-boat. The dinghy is moored astern of us. Meanwhile he has
been lighting a fire and preparing a jolly little supper to complete the evening's
enjoyment. The smell of provender and the refreshing aroma of tea filters out into
the quiet air and rouses us from our reverie, for whilst he has been busy we have

70 JULY IN BROADLAND.

been left to enjoy our silent vigil. What a proper spread to be sure, and what a
nobby home-like cabin in which to spoil it ! Let us describe our ark's interior. As
you enter you are obliged to stoop, for the ceiling does not admit of standing. On
either side is a settle, which runs the length of the cabin : on them are soft hay
cushions; by day they are lounges, at night they serve as beds and mattresses. The
foundation of all is a great old fishing-smack's boat, more knocked about than worn
out on the rough North Sea. A bit of timber strengthened here and there, and
she answered famously. Beneath the settles are a number of lockers, in which vari-
ous household utensils find storage. A stove faces you as you enter from the stern-
sheets ; upon its magic bosom our friend works wonders in the line of cooking. The
cabin is double-boarded; and snug cupboards fill up the corners of it, and within
them are stowed the crocks and some other essentials for use and comfort. A
swing lamp, and ditto table, a tiny clock, and an aneroid barometer form the arti-
cles in suspension, to which may be added a fishing-rod and a fowling-piece for use
when legitimate occasion offers. The grainer and painter have added much to the
general appearance. Supper over — and such a supper and appetite to boot, for the
Broadland air is provocative of the latter — we turn in ; and wrapping our Austrian
blankets around us, sleep as only tired folk, at peace with God and all men, can
do; but it is late ere oblivion enshrouds us, for pleasant gossip goes on until speech
becomes incoherent and nature gives in altogether. We are not without floating
neighbours. Astern of us lie moored a couple of small yachts, covered by canvas
awnings. Beneath them are sleeping two parties of lusty young students, who are
' doing ' the Broads in quest of health and pleasure after months of wearying toil
and study. Such is a summer's night spent in Broadland.

We wake an hour or so after midnight, and steal out to take a peep at what
is going on around us. Skylarks are already welcoming the dawn of the peaceful
Sabbath, one is actually aloft, but it is yet too dark to discern him. The moon is
hidden again, but the stars are yet glistening in the firmament, their reflex making
the waters look cold and silvery. Gradually the dawn steals over the face of na-
ture. The small birds are waking and the bats are still flitting as if loath to turn
the night into day. The crowing of cocks sounds afar and near: and the snoring
of our artist -friend inside sounds nearer and louder. Black-headed buntings are
tuning their morning songs, and the twitter of the swallows announces their search
for an early breakfast. By three o'clock the stars have become dim, and the blue
sky abovehead is streaked with purple and crimson. In bunches the starlings are
quitting the reed-bed, and the quiet waters in which the big brown ' pokers ' of
the bulrushes are reflected become agitated with concentric rings as the large fish

JULY IN BEOADLAND. 71

rise at the flies upon the surface. The cry of the redshank and the harsher note
of the heron are heard as they change their feeding quarters. The trained ear of
the naturalist distinguishes other bird cries.

The monotonous ding ! dong ! of the bells in the village belfry is summoning
man to worship his Creator. The quiet of the country on the morning of the
Sabbath is delightful. Clad in their best apparel, rustics old and young are wend-
ing their way towards the sanctuary. Eound the porch of the old grey church
stand and gossip many of the simple villagers ; politics and agriculture and the
troubles and doings of each and his neighbours, come in for a share of harmless
discussion, until the parson makes his appearance, when hard, horny hands make
clumsy salutations, and they follow the good man inside. Bewitching strains of
organ and boyish voices, mellowed by the obstructive walls and windows, fall on
our ears, and awaken hallowed feelings as we leave the man of Grod to ' lure to
brighter worlds and lead the way.' Hearken to those familiar words —

'Hark ! hark! my soul: angelic songs are swelling

O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave-beat shore:
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life where sin shall be no more.

Angels of Jesus, angels of light —
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.'

Oh ! how these beautiful words, as the verses go on, touch our hearts. A tear
steals down our artist-friend's cheek. Surely the words and these sweet voices
are recalling sunny, and mayhap sad memories. That old hymn has touched a
very tender spot in his noble soul. We link our arm in his and stand silently
beside him. We care not to break in upon holy thoughts and emotions by conver-
sation. Presently we find ourselves inside the house of Grod.

Our artist-friend has some letters to write in the afternoon, hence we pull to
the village staith alone, bent upon attending service at the ' Kanters' ' chapel, as
such places are yet occasionally called in our remoter hamlets.

6 'Tis over yinder, by that big owd elm-tree. Foller yer face down yon ' loke,'
then turn at the bottom, and yow'll find it close aginst the willage smithy.' So
directs us a tousle-headed urchin, with a hedge-sparrow's nest in his Sunday cap
and a cane-suggestive rent down the leg of his breeks. Sounds of lusty singing

72

JULY IN BROADLAND.

from a cottage-like building, with martin's nests stuck in its windows, are sufficient
to denote the purpose for which it was erected—

' Hark ! the Gospel news is sounding,
Grace for all is rich and free,'

j

BEDTIME.

reassuring us that the Primitives unrnistakeably worship there. We are ushered
into a pew as plain as was ever put together by nails and hammer. Most of the
seats are occupied. Sons of toil and their wives and kindred earnestly worship their
maker in song — song that stirs the heart rather than softens it, that makes the soul
feel strong and aggressive, and that refreshes it. A shuffling of feet upon the sandy
floor follows the finishing of the hymn. Ked handkerchiefs dot the hard cold ' pam-

JULY IN BROADLAND. 73

ments,' and sturdy knees bow humbly before Him who readeth the hearts of all men.
An aged brother, bent with the weight of years, who occupies the tub of a pulpit,
pours out his prayer before Him. His stentorian voice is drowned at times by the
louder responses of those below. Everyone, save some fidgety youngsters in a corner,
appears profoundly devout; one of these is brought to his senses by a box on the
ears, administered by one whose duty seems to be to preserve order. The urchin
evidently has been expecting this, for he takes it as a matter of course, and winks
an adjournment at his companions until Farmer Giles has settled for his usual
nap.

Our friend in the pulpit apologises for the non-appearance of the local ap-
pointed for conducting the day's services, and takes them over himself rather than
let the time pass unimproved. His explanatory reading of the parable of the sower,
a favourite one of his, and one which he has given them more than once before,
meets with general approval, one and another good brother putting in an idea
which considerably enlivens the proceedings. His remarks are practical as well
as pungent. More hearty singing follows. Then comes the text. ' Friends,' he
says, shutting the open Bible with a bang, l yow'll find it in the Dan'l v., part of
the 22nd wearse, ' My God hath sent His angel, and hath shet the lions' mouths,'
adding, ' and ha' kivered up theer teeth,' as a supplementary text of his own. Here
the trial of ( Dan'l ' is graphically detailed, interspersed with many original ideas
and no end of quaint Norfolk jargon. Evidently our friend reads his newspaper,
for your rustic has learned to think for himself; even the aged, who are behind the
village times, plod on in the wake of the more eager steps of the rising generation.
He, like many another rural dissenter, whilst showing proper deference and respect
to the squire and parson, has long enjoyed the benefit of his theological convic-
tions; and whilst there is nothing of the Socialist in his creed, he loves and
advocates freedom of thought, and believes in the equality of all men, at least before
Him who created them. But to the ' sermon.' Here is the gist of it : —

* Dan'l wor put in the wery topmost bough of the social tree, becos he was
reckoned the wery best man tu hold hisself on it. He wor teetotal, as ivery Chris-
tian shud be. A man as wor sich kept a clear hid, an' cud run a straiter furrow
than him as got fuddled at the King's Arms, or the Eisin' Sun. An' the king
didn't go about with his eyes shet. Then jealousy, like abed of nettles, crops up,
and makes it warm for poor old Dan'l. What oan't folks du when jealousy's got
fairly ruted ? Then that paaper what they got the king tu put his name tu.
What fules folks make o' theerselves when they sign anything athowt proper
thought and consideration ! Them lions wor kept tu claw up folks, as we keep

71 JULY IN BROADLAND.

rope tu hang them as ha' done crimes tu awful for 'em tu remain on the airth.
The martyrs know'd summat about lions. Did Dan'l giv up prayin' ? Not he. He
didn't put off his prayers till he got atween the blankets an' then slept on 'em, he
wasn't afeard to jine in the prayer meetin' for fear folks shud hear him. He opened
his winder. Some on us would ha' banged it tu an' drawed the blind. Dan'l didn't.
Then they tiptoed under the window, and heerd him. i Alright,' says they, 'Dan'l
we've got ye.' Darius done his best for him, an' didn't think no more o' the tattlers
for theer spite an' tell-talin' ! They'd heerd Dan'l and theer warn't any breakin'
o' the law o' the Medes an' Prussians. Why didn't Dan'l be keerful ? Couldn't
God heer a whisper ? Of cos He ken, but that warn't it, it wor stickin1 tu principle.
Darius whispered in his ear words of good cheer. I reckon them fellows got the
keepers tu forget them lions' suppers a day or tew aforehand. In they popped
him. How them big men stared when them ravenous beasts fell to lickin' instead
of eating Dan'l ! God sent His angel. If Dan'l prayed upstairs, I reckon he didn't
give up now. Darius had a rough night on it. A guilty conscience wor'wuss 'an
sleepin' on a heap o' sheep-hurdles or under a harrer. He was a airly riser next
mornin', and cumin' tu the gratin whined out, i Dan'l are yew theer, or are yew
eaten up ? ' Dan'l said, l Alright, guvner, I'm all serene, God ha' sent His angel /'
And friends, ain't God shet the lions' mouths for yew full many a time ? ' (A chorus
of answers in the affirmative follows the question.) < If the lions oan't eat Dan'],'
says the king, 'yew must out with him.' So Dan'i wor hauled out alright an' riddy
for his breakfast. But the wust wor yit tu cum, his iniinies wor hulled in an'
made breakfast for them starvin' lions. And friends, ain't it true that the sins of
the fathers is wisited on the little uns ? Ah ! friends, I allers pities the innercent
little uns. And note yew, them as dig traps for others gin'rally fall in theerselves.
I once knowed a keeper put a shot intu a fox as wor about tu spring on a hare ;
had he not been arter the hare he'd not ha' bin shot most likely.

Our 'parson's' lessons drawn from the narrative are, 'First — It ain't allers
aisy work tu sarve God ; second, If we want tu be good an' prosperous in this
world an' the next, we must be prayin' people; third, It is allers best tu take our
troubles an' our cares tu God, for He'll sefld His angel tu shet the lions' mouths.'

Another night on the Broads, an early row round, and a dip in the cool fresh
waters, and away are we hurried in the rumbling train to the worries and bustles
and responsibilities of the work-a-day world.

AUGUST IN BKOADLAND.

' Oh ! the gallant fisher's life.

It is the best of any ;
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis beloved of many.

For our skill breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.'

— Izadk Walton.

^ HE fair warm days of August dawn upon ripening fields that are l white
unto the harvest.' The sound of the whetting of scythes becomes as
familiar in the countryside as the chirping of sparrows in the hedge-
rows, and the hum of bees among the gaudy wildflowers. There is
little time for leisure just now at the farm, for Hodge and Farmer
Griles, his l maaster,' are taking advantage of the l wather.' Every fine
day has become precious, the depredations of the swarming birds and the fear of
sudden storms make it imperative that the fields should be shorn of their wealth
and beauty with all possible haste.

It has been market-day to-day, and one by one, as their stalls have been
stripped of the produce of the coop and garden-patch and the output of the dairy,
the country-folk have harnessed their horses and turned their heads homewards.
It is a pleasing sight on a market-morning to see the heavily-laden carts, with
springs strained to their very utmost, piled up with the good things of this life,
coming rumbling into town. Those who hold the reins, and those who sit beside
the driver, are more quaintly dressed than picturesque, and the broad Norfolk
' patter ' they dispense in the market-place is quainter still.

AUGUST IN SROADLAND. 77

Behold us in the afternoon of a hot August day jog-trotting along upon a
tough old vehicle that has rattled backwards and forwards these many years; the
painter has not seen it since it first left his hands. A towy-headed rustic, with a
broad-brimmed felt hat, turned down in the orthodox fashion, has the reins, and
old 'Nelson,' whose pace, in spite of threats and persuasions, has not altered one
whit since we started, is shambling doggedly along. The good man's ' missus ' is
sitting on our right. Between two such substantial mortals we feel quite small.
We may not describe her habiliments — they are more than half a century behind
the city fashions.

Our driver takes great pains to point out with his lashless whip-stalk every
thing that he imagines of interest to us, from the churches and parsonages which
peer out from between crowding trees, to the barley in the harvest-field that is
ready for the carting. His talk is of all that is rural, and of not a little that isn't.

' 'Bor,' he says, ' farmin' ain't what it wor when I was a youngster. Theer's a
heap of things as have altered since 'the good old days long ago,' when gleaners
picked up the stray ears, and harvest hoam wor one o' the sights an' most pleasant
doin's o' the country. Law ! the powetry's all knocked out of it, what wi' the
bringin' in of machinery, and the buyin' up of corn from them furriners, the hull
(whole) thing's got transmorgorified. Time was when the sickle an' the scythe
cud du what wor required; but folks ha' got a sight too go-a-head nowadays, and
now yow must hev a heap o' machines a cuttin' out labour, and doin' the thing so
grandly. But sorry times ha' dawned on us, for all that 'ere, and ain't likely tu
bettern while them 'Mericans an' Eooshens send theer ships with many a ton, and
du it cheaper, tu.

1 The willages ha' got behindhand tu, for many a lab'rer leaves 'em for the
towns; but theer, 'bor, yow know as much about that, and the evil days we've lived
tu see, as I ken tell yer of 'em.'

'(rood arternune! Mrs. Gammut,' is the salute he treats an old lady to, who
is alternately whacking and jerking the reins of a scraggy and ancient donkey,
that is slowly trundling the aged soul along. Mrs. Gammut has been to the town
for her 'washings,' as the baskets of linen piled up in her little cart bear witness.
It was early morning when the obstinate ' dicky ' left his stable, in which he
hopes to munch his supper by nightfall. The surviving folk of an almost obsolete
generation take things easier than the present, and live the longer for their unam-
bitious jog-trot, doubtless. Mrs. Gammut bids us ' Arternune,' and amidst her
heaps of linen essays a little curtsey.

78 AUGUST JA BHOADLAND.

Ere we get our supper at the Marshman's quiet cottage, we ramble out into
the dusty lane. We could not loiter to admire the campions dotting the hedge-
banks with their whites and pinks, or the pale pink bells of the bindweed. There
is a perceptible decrease in the number of wildflowers ; those which are yet unfold-
ing their petals are bright and gaudy. Here we find the stately corn-blue-bottle,
the scarlet pimpernel, yellow hawkweeds, spreading mallows, scarlet poppies, and
many another. Insects of many species dance to and fro above the flowers, and
the low-flying swallows and martins are busy snapping a supper from amongst
their heedless swarms.

There is a promise of rain. Dark patches of cloud, scarcely larger than a
man's hand, are hastening up from the west'ard, those behind growing larger and
lumpier as they journey towards the east. The dust is lifted from the roadway
with the puffs of wind that fitfully travel before the advancing shower, and whirl
it upon the hedges, enveloping the passer-by in its dirty shroud. The fir-trees
sway to and fro as it increases, and the willows flutter their pennon-leaves as if
eager to catch the hastening raindrops. High over-head some great grey gulls
are ' shay ling ' in erratic flight, making seaward.

At the Broadside the reeds and sedges are swaying and bending before the
breeze, rustling their stiff leaves and tall stems against each other, till a murmur
like the waves beating upon the seashore falls on the ear. The few remaining
leafless stems of an older growth crackle and fall one by one, to float awhile as at
anchor, and then to sink beneath the surface and find burial in the waters, as their
predecessors did before them. The sedge- birds have ceased their merry warbling
and chirp discontentedly ; feeding and perching have become hampered and irk-
some in the troubled reed-clump. The rain patters down in a smart drenching
shower. Out on the Broad the coots and moorhens are revelling in the shower-
bath ; the grebe and its striped progeny paddle out boldly into the open.

It is unpleasant tramping and crouching beside the hedgerows ; they afford
but a sorry shelter, and the finer particles from the baffled raindrops filter through
the thorn-sprays. The brier smells all the sweeter for the refreshing moisture,
and vegetation in general looks the brighter for the big drops that wash the dust
and dinginess from the myriad leaves. The wild-flowers are gayer too, they will
be smiling and looking at their best with the return of the sunshine. How the
wind shakes the stiff old oak branches, and flutters the dark green ivy leaves that
spring out as if from its gnarled trunk!

80 AUGUST IN BROADLAND.

Note yon slender pied wagtails nimbly running by that roadside puddle !
The rain troubles them little so long as it washes the gnats and midges within
reach of their mandibles. The rooks upon the old elm trees are not nearly so
well pleased. It is a sorry time they are having while the rough wind is shaking
the twigs and grass-bents from their family mansions. With drooping and be-
draggled wings they are hoping the squall will soon have passed, and that another
hour's grubbing may be yet done before nightfall. The song birds have ceased
their merrymaking, even the lark has dropped in the stubble dispirited and has
finished his song.

But the wind is subsiding, the thick clouds have parted, and streaks of blue
peer through with the sunlight. The storm is over, dead twigs lie scattered along
the roadway. The roadside hollows are filled with turbid water. Kaindrops hang
from leaf and flower sparkling with the lustre of so many pearls and diamonds. The
birds are again joyous, and many are warbling their delight in a song of gladness.
There is a rainbow in the east, and the sinking sun is kissing all Nature into a blush
of beauty. Tints of purple and gold gather in the west, and a crimson glow paints
the horizon as he slowly recedes from view. The harvestmen, who have been
1 standing up' for shelter, are hastening homeward, our old friend Jem Trett
amongst them. It is almost needless to say we enter into a friendly confab, which
finishes at the Broad-margin, where we take leave of him to enjoy a quiet half-hour
in the gloaming and quietude of evening.

It were intensely quiet but for the varied sounds which Nature makes around
us. There is quite a riot, indeed, in the reed-bed; the crowding starlings are squab-
bling for roosting-places for the night. Bunch after bunch have been dropping in
this half-hour. They have filled their crops with grubs and beetles, have executed
their characteristic gyrations in the air, and would settle to nap till early morning.
But each fresh company on arrival disturbs its luckier companions, who protest
against the invasion of their rights. The moorhen's harsh croak is frequent, and
other less familiar notes are heard at intervals. The ter-ick of the partridge
resounds in the fields, and the soft cooing of the turtle dove issues from the leafy
wood. The hirundines are still dashing to and fro. A small wading bird flies
past us uttering a peculiarly shrill, piping cry, which we recognise as that of the
green sandpiper. A freshly ' fyed-out ' dyke we passed has had some attraction
for it, no doubt ; this species loves to hunt among the debris of the ditches.

Harken to that queer jarring sound ! it is like the shaking of a rattle or the
turning of a ropemaker's wheel. It is none other than a fern-owl or night-jar

AUGUST IN BROADLAND. 81

doing his best at an even-song. Moths had need ' ware ' fern-owl, for his capa-
cious mouth makes sepulchre for the largest of their race.

' The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note — '

The bats and owls are rousing themselves in the village steeple, they will be
out ere many a diurnal creature has tucked its head under wing, or curled up its
furry body for its nightly sleep.

Big fish are rolling near the surface as if in play, and many a luckless fly is
snapped up as it floats across their vision. The distant boom of a fowling-piece
is now and again heard; the wild-fowler is lying in wait for 'flappers' (young
ducks), whose young lives trickle out with their blood; their first short flights
across their native Broad are often fatal to the species.

Supper in the marshman's cottage we may not dare dwell upon; but the
enjoyable feast over, we turn into our sleeping-quarters, and leaving ourselves to
the care of Him f who neither slumbers nor sleeps,' are soon in the realms of Nod,
heedless of the bright pale harvest-moon shining through the latticed windows,
with the honeysuckle making strange patterns in the shadows that fall upon our
coverlet.

It is an early-rising lark that is up before us in the morning. The martins,
twittering in their rude clay huts above our window, have scarcely peeped out to
welcome the sunrise ere we are doing the same. A jolly day's fishing is in pros-
pect, for the wind bids fair and the fish are well upon the feed. Then we have
some lady friends coming to Broadland to-day, and if we can but persuade them
not to be fidgeting about, and wanting to pull here and there, and sing and
laugh, our happiness will be complete. But ladies, for sure, are never so restless
as when upon the water ! They must gather bulrushes and reeds, and pluck the
yellow iris and those lovely waterlilies ! And they — the ladies — are irresistible.
And what man is there who dares disregard their imperative demands ?

On our way to the village station to meet them we encounter an individual
whose ' doings ' interest us. He is a little old man of sixty summers, at a guess ;
there is a dash of something superior about him. We edge him into a chat, and
find him communicative. He hails from a neighbouring city: 'I'm from Norwich,
sir, I'm Norwich bred and born. A good old city that, with its forty churches

L

82 AUGUST IN BEOADLAND.

and its 100,000 folk; and a better people, take them on the whole, you'll not find
in old England.

4 What do I mean by that? I'll tell you, sir; there is not a more un clannish
folk: they're open-hearted, free, and always ready to give a hand to an unfortunate
fellow-citizen. I won't say more or you'll think I'm clannish.

'What am I? Well, I do anything just now; they call me the ' fern-man,'
and it's ferns, you see, to-day I'm gathering. Here's lady-ferns, spleenworts, and
prickly shield-ferns. Many folks have a taste for this kind of wild-plant ; and
what looks better in a dingy backyard than a nicely arranged fernery ?

' You see, sir, it's like this. I wasn't brought up to this kind of thing. I am
a f comp.' by trade- a printer, you know — but getting my right hand crippled (see
it) in the machinery, I was of no further use. I met with much kindness, but, you
know, you can't live always on it — at least, I couldn't — and after turning Micawber
for a time, I thought 'twas time to turn up something for myself. I was always
' gone ' on botany, and natural history in general. So thinks I, when I saw some
ferns in a hedge one day, here's just it; so, getting a ' ped,' I filled it, and leaving
a bit of pride behind me, started business. I soon cleared out. And that's how
one thing led on to another. In the various seasons I hunt for watercresses, ferns,
primroses, sweetbriar, and other wild flowers, taking commissions for gathering
specialties for cooped-up folks who have tastes akin to my own. Why, only to-day
I'm taking home this bundle of dandelions for a herbalist, and this bunch of wild
plants to a botanist, who particularly wants them, and hasn't time to come himself.
I met with a stroke of luck not long back, I found a species of orchis, they named
it Gordyera repens. It was growing amongst some firs ; they said it was imported
with the trees from Scotland. Where did the luck come in ? Why, with the crown
that followed !

' I don't confine myself to ( green-stuffs.' Anything in the way naturalistic
that turns up I take it on. Oh ! by-the-by, I've a splendid snake here. Here he
is, I tied him in this little bag. I heard a funny squealing just behind a hedge.
I peered cautiously through, and saw a sight that much interested me: it was a
wretched frog that was protesting ; this snake had got him by the leg. The frog
was kicking in a dazed sort of way, as if he felt it was all over with him. One leg
was down the reptile's throat, the other hind leg was free. It was really exciting
to see ; and I stayed to watch the finale, which came about eventually in the frog's
going down, poor thing ! And this swelling in the snake shows how far on his
travels the four-legged reptile's gone as yet.'

AUGUST IN BROADLAND.

83

The squirming grass-snake is replaced in his bag, and the heavily-laden little
man plods on again — and his tongue keeps equal pace.

4 Natterjack toads and common toads I never pass by, sir, for many folks like
them in their gardens and their greenhouses, where they earn their living snapping
up the insects. Newts and lizards I've a market for, and the tenants of the ditches
have to mind their P's and Q's when aquaria need replenishing.'

Much more does the old man say, which space forbids to detail.

WELCOMING A PERCH.

After a jolly walk we find ourselves afloat. We shall not expect to see many
bearded tits or wild-fowl or coots or moorhens, or to have the willing company of
many a little reed-loving songster to-day, for other warblers in the boat will do the
singing; and snatches of familiar boating-songs will be the order of the day, no
doubt. And is it not well in every sphere of life that the ladies are more volatile
than men ? Why, bless you, phlegmatic man has much to be thankful for when
light-hearted, hopeful, sunshiny woman throws her pretty shadow across his path-
way!

84 AUGUST 77V BROADLAND.

The plumy tufts of the now perfect reeds nod in the breeze, and the tall
pokers of the bulrushes bend to peep at their reflex in the clear waters below them.
And the waterlilies, spreading their great green leaves, and opening their snowy
flowers, put the finishing touches to many a lovely corner of Broadland. We make
for one end of the Broad, behind whose reedy margin rise low hills of cultivated
land. The water round us has a greenish tint ; into it we quietly drop our huge
flint-stone anchors. The view from the stern of the boat is pretty. There is a
maze of little islands, which look like floating flower-beds. Water hemlocks, water
plantains, purple loose-strife, and the pink willow-herb show up their large green
leaves and pretty flowers in profusion; and the pointed spear-leaves guard the
pale-yellow irises. Sedges and reeds and rushes, with dark-green alders and wil-
lows, fill in the back-ground. Our tackle and rods are soon put together : ground-
bait is thrown over, and we seriously settle to angling.

We have, for our factotum, shipped a native, who at once becomes a ' guide,
philosopher, and friend,' and it is due to him that much of the flightiness of our
lady friends tones down into something akin to real interest and earnestness, for
his amusing dialect and store of local information win their attention and their
love of novelty.

He unreels much that others of his kith and kin have already told us of the
birds and of the fens and fenfolk, although to him the days when the ruffs and
reeves, and many another present-day rarity, were common, are nothing more than
the traditions of his elders. Yet he has had ' sport in his time ; why, bless yer,
he'd known the Broads friz hard as wall-flints in the winter, and ha' seen fowl an'
swans in oceans driv' this ere way by bad wather, and a flyin' round and round
the place, reg'lar hard up for grub and water.'

4 Once, and only tew winters ago,' he says, <I done a stroke o' shootin' as many
an old gunner would a' thowt worth the doin' in the old times. It had blowed an'
snewed for a couple of days, an' —

' Theer, sir, yow had a splendid bite jest now — yew've got him! I towd yer so.'

We strike, and haul out a big slimy bream, but not before he has given a
little bit of protest, and made his exit from his native haunts a warning to the
friends he has left for ever, unless they be heedless, and share a like untimely
fate.

4 1 wor sayin', sir, it snewed. Law ! the hivens wor black as thunder-clouds, and
the Broad wor kivered with a couple o' feet of ice. Old ' Prickle-back ' Thacker
an' me got leave tu du a day's shootin' on the ice, the gent at the Hall being a

AUGUST IN B1WADLAND. 85

bit partial tu me ; and we went up theer with our old 8-bores an' a hatchet. Up
an' down the poor bards was flyin', and as soon as they seed the open patch of water,
an' sum chaff we'd thrown in, a-flotin' on it, in they plumped. We wor a-hind a
heap o' faggots ; and if yew b'lieve me, we blazed away several times, pickin' up
near twenty pokers (pochards), a dozen wild duck and mallard, several teal, and
amongst 'em a number of rattle-wings (golden eyes), and a lovely black and white
weasel-duck, what yow'd call a smew. We filled a sack, didn't say much about it,
and sold 'em at a dacent figure at a Norwich poulterer's. — Yew've got a fish, lady!
Now then, let me shove the net under; steady a bit — keep the line taut, now wind
up a bit. Now we've got him ! And as nice a perch it is as IV seen for a wery long
chalk. If it ain't a tew-pounder, my name ain't Sharman ! '

Nothing more out of the common falls a prey to the allurements of our well-
cleansed lob-worms. Bream — mostly under a pound in weight, chance-time one
above it — a few heedless little roach, and now and then a perch, or a succession of
them, make our floats dance and vanish. There is fun galore, * tho' what is fun
to you is death to us,' the hapless fish might tell us ; even the squeamishness of
the fair sex vanishes in the excitement of the pastime, and the most fugitive
thought that angling savours of the cruel and the ungodly appears to have flitted
also. May we not have felt like old Walton in his vindication of an angler's

innocence ?

'For so our Lord was pleased when
He fishers made fishers of men;
Where (which is in no other game)
A man may fish and praise His name.'

In the meantime Sharman has been most graciously communicative.

1 Theer ain't much as'll beat fishin' when the fish'll bite, sir. And we ain't
duin' badly this mornin'. Why, I've took folks on heer afore, and fished the hull
day out athowt a sorry scale comin' up. How many fish ha' we got in Broadland ?
Wai, le' me see, theer's over a score. I'll run 'em over. Pearch, yeller bream,
roach, roud (rudd), silver bream, ruffes (tha's one yow now hauled in, Miss),
minners (minnows), gudgeons, pikes (some on 'em whoppers!), tench, and miller's
thumbs — them's all common. Then theer's crucian carp, and the 'tother carp,
which is as artful as a lawyer, and trout higher up the river — them I know on.
And I've heerd say theer's loach, and p'raps a few chub, an' maybe one or tew more,
but I ain't seen 'em. An' seein's believin', ain't it? I ain't mentioned eels? —
Wai, yow doan't hardly call 'em fish. What are they, then ? Why, eels, in course.
Theer's tew sorts o' them.

66 AUGUST JA BROADLAND.

' Law, 'tis a pity we < Norfolk dumplins ' can't make good use on 'em when
we've caught 'em. Seems such a pity to chuck a catch of three or four stun on
the bank tu feed the flies an' rats with an' breed most fearful stenches. They tell
me in some parts they make 'em a credit tu the fryin' pan. I doan't see why we
shouldn't hev better kinds of fish introduced, sufnn' as we ken eat. Jest yow try
your cook with a couple of bream, sir; if she don't chuck 'em to the cat, and fry
yew a haddock instead, my name ain't Sharman ! Yew see they doan't fare tu
know how tu make 'em tasty.5

* Fish are queer 'uns. They hev whims an' fancies jest like Christians, and are
a sight more knowin' than we think 'em.'

Such is a sample of our factotum's extempore lecture. The man seems a
kind of talking machine and a Broadland encyclopaedia in one, as most of your
fen-folk are when fellow-feeling makes us kin. But once break through that thin
crust of reserve, and edge them out of their monosyllables, and they unwind to
an extent that is surprising.

Header, did you ever escort a lass to the railway station after a day's frolic in
the country ? You know what packages went out, and what an increase, alas !
came back again; such bundles of flowers and reeds and grasses, and what not.
You were glad when your faltering footsteps reached the station threshold. Pity
us, then, with a brace of them, with the weight of our own paraphernalia, and some
of the largest of the fishes, for they've determined to cook them, cook them — mark
you. And then those bundles, and —

Yet we have some pleasant recollections of that delightful August day in the
Broadland.

THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER.

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND.

' When Autumn scatters his departing gleams,
Warned of approaching winter, gathered, play

The swallow people — '

— Thompson.

HE glories of the Broadland summer are on the wane ; yet September
is one of our most delightful months, and though the beauties of Flora
are not so widely broadcast, Pomona is smiling upon her ruddy orchards.
There is a decided change creeping over the face of nature, many of the
birds of summer are on the move, and the sounds which greeted the
ear in the longer days are replaced by a different order. The harvest
is ended, the fields ares horn of their beauty, and the thatcher has all but com-
pleted his roofing in of the corn-stacks. The weather is yet warm and balmy, the
sportsman is out with dog and gun in the stubbles, and Farmer Griles and Hodge
are putting their thrashing-machines in working order. Much of the poetry of
country-life is obsolete; the flail is no longer heard upon the thrashing floor, and
the gleaners are among the shadows of the past. There is little in the hum of
machinery to awaken the poet's muse. And behindhand Broadland has followed
in the wake of the more advanced agricultural districts.

88 SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND.

An early September morning finds us hastening on our way into the ' Land
of the Broads.' We are our own Jehus for the nonce, for the modern ( bike ' has
usurped the place of yacht and horse and railroad. There is much professed
appreciation of the beauties of the surrounding country from the saddle of a
'safety,' but the temptations to hurry, the obscuring tendencies of dust, and the
several other obstacles to observation that are obviously incidental to it, make
such statements doubtful, for the eyes and the mind are too much preoccupied
to allow them to wander far aside. One wants to dawdle and to 'mardle' (gos-
sip) in the lanes, as the bees do among the flowerets, to extract interest from
them.

We have turned our backs upon the sleeping town, whose streets have been
handed over to the drowsy policeman and the sweeper. The town sparrows have
only just hopped down upon the roadway, the late broods of house-martins are
twittering in the doorways of their rude clay tenements. The shrill ory of the
swift is no longer heard abovehead, and the swallows will be congregating to-day
upon the elevated electric wires, discussing their approaching journey southward.
As we glide along the 'turnpike' sounds of bird-life betoken that the feathered
tribes are beginning their daily avocations. Snatches of song are indulged in by
the thrush and blackbird, whose domestic cares and worries are again ended; and
if that sweet mellow song we now heard is not the roundelay of the woodlark, we
are very much mistaken.

The dew is still upon the hedgerows and the grass beneath them. The big
nets of the geometric spider, suspended upon the thorny sprays, are beaded with
diamond drops that sparkle in the sunlight, and the stubbles are interlaced and
covered with the filmy flakes of gossamer. Yon partridges, hastening towards the
shelter of the herbage at the hedgeside, are not well-pleased with the close-shorn
fields.

If the foliage of the trees was beautiful when the year was younger, it is far
from unlovely now, when tinted and bedecked with the colours of autumn. A few
of the leaves have fallen, and many are fading, and will ere long become a part
again of mother earth. The naturalist, to whom all life is dear, sighs and regrets
that l we all do fade as a leaf,' yet feels assured and satisfied when he remembers
that a new life will dawn again when the snows of winter are ended. There are
but few wild flowers enlivening the monotony of the hedge-bottom, in which the
yellow bracken is spreading its big serrated frondage. The flea-bane dots the
coarse herbage with yellow, and the clinging festoons of the great bindweed are
hanging out their pinky-white flower-bells. The purple nightshade is flowering

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND. 89

freely, and the honeysuckle above it is yet adorning the hedges with its sweetly-
scented sprays. The hawthorn berries are assuming a ruddy hue, the old fir-trees
behind them are heavy with their myriad seed-cones, while here and there the
taller birches and oaks and ash-trees cast their shadows over them.

By the time we are fairly within sight of the Broads the country folk are stir-
ring. The clanging of the anvil at the village smithy rings out clearly in the
quiet morning. Faint blue smoke curls upwards from the low chimneys; there is
scarcely sufficient wind to scatter it or to turn the sails of the quaint old mill in
the centre of the hamlet. There is not a ripple upon the river that meanders
slowly by, and in whose clear depths the houses and the white sails of the yacht
moored at the little staith are graphically .reflected. A couple of yachtsmen on the
bank are preparing for their morning dip. A mile beyond us lie spread the waters
of the Broad.

We walk our safeties uphill, staying a moment beside a stile to take a glimpse
at a furzy knoll and the spreading landscape beyond it. We clamber over to
examine a gaudy wild-flower that has attracted our attention. A wheatear starts
up from a slight depression wherein it has been hunting for ground-loving spiders,
perches daintily upon a furze-spray, flicks its tail and darts away again to some
fresh location, making its white rump conspicuous in its flitting. There are a
number of others which are congregating ere they make for the downs of Sussex
on their way to cross the Channel. There is a host of linnets ; small flocks of them
are already working southward from the northern moors. Our home-bred birds are
congregating. The bird-catcher evidently knows it. Yonder is one of the fra-
ternity ; let us ' beard ' him.

He salutes us with a nod and * Mornin' ! gintlemen,' and then resumes the
attitude of attention, with his pull-over cord in one hand, and the string which
works his * trigger-bird ' in the other. The * calls ' of his caged decoy-birds have
announced the arrival and passing over of a parcel of linnets. The man's face is
all animation as he pulls the lever of the trigger up and down ; and the little bird
braced upon the end of it flutters its wings in order to keep upon its perch. Down
go the poor creatures into the fatal space between the clap-nets, which are instantly
pulled up and over upon them. Farewell for ever ! sweet liberty and fair scenes
of early days and friendships !

M

PREPAKING FOR THEIR MORNING DIP.

SEPTEMBER IN SROADLAND. . 91

Let us describe the bird-man's surroundings and his stock-in-trade. Furze-
bushes and thistles dot the outlook for several acres. On an open space two huge
oblong nets are so spread that when ( pulled,' by connecting cords and stakes, the
area between them is covered by the turning over of the twain. Inside are spread
a quantity of chickweed and other dainties beloved of linnets, which form his
principal catches. Upon a couple of long twig-levers a linnet and a goldfinch are
generally fastened. A piece of kid glove, cut something like a pair of braces, and
known as such, is placed around each bird, and by means of an eyelet below, each
is fastened to the stick. The jerking of these up and down attracts the passing
migrants. Around the net are placed little sentry-boxes of cages in which flutter
a well-trained series of linnets, goldfinches, siskins, and such-like, each of whom,
saluting the wild individuals of its species, too often unwittingly lures them into
a like captivity.

And now the man finds he has a tongue, and to a question or two gives
somewhat evasive answers ; but presently, over a well-filled pipe, thaws into con-
versation, and becomes communicative.

'What bards du I usually ketch? Wai, 'bor, it's mostly linnets that I'm
arter, but I ain't perticlar if I can trap a few draw-waters (gold-finches) as well,
which pay better 'an any others; aberdivines (siskins) an' redpoles — they pay for
theketchin' tu. But law! theer ain't neer the bards theer wor when I was a
youngster, not of the sort as I want, anyhow. Why, I've ketcht eight an' ten
dozen cock linnets in a mornin' where I takes only one or tew nowadays. I s'pose
the choppin' up of fuzz-bushes by the knock-a-ball golfers ha' cleared out some of
their breedin' places, I know for sartin they hev at Yarmith, where ketchin's about
done for, and maybe us fellers, though I say it myself, have summat reduced the
stock; and no wonder, when yereckin up the hundreds of thousands we've trapped,
say, for the last ten yeer. Look at them draw-waters — why, they've come as scarce
as lion-shillin's where they used tu be as common as sparrers.

* But keep yow quiet ; here's suffin a comin' ' — And ' suffin ' does come, but
refuses every call and enticement to enter the fatal area; after wheeling round
once or twice the parcel of wary birds fly onward.

'They've bin pulled at afore, and ha' growed artful. What du I du with my
bards ? Wai, I hev reg'lar buyers up in Whitechapel as takes all I like to send
'em, at so much the dozen. One feller takes every mortal thing I like to send
him— gong-bards, and any other sort as is stupid enuf to patternize my nets. An'
I've ketcht a rummen or tew in my time. Theer's one or tew folks as collects bards

92 SEPTEMBER IN BEOADLAND

in the town, and they're crazy for tu hev any queer-uns as I ketch, and pay well
tu for 'em, they du. Lemme see, I've netted a Eichard's pipit, a white wagtail or
tew, several shore-larks, and three or four Lapland buntings, besides some as I
can't remember theer names. It's like this, 'bor, we know the common ones, and
anything as isn't common, why, it's oncomrnon. D'ye see? Then we make the
best markit on 'em we ken. Some yeers ago I ketcht a bard as I thowt were a
cur'ous linnet, and sold it for a tanner (sixpence). It throwed up a couple of ear-
wiggles in the cage. What wor it? Well, I heerd arterwards as how it wor a
barred warbler, and changed hands at four or five sov'reigns ! That's what ye git for
want of eddication

* Jest a minnit, gents

Our catcher, who is successful this time, runs to make sure of half-a-dozen
captives struggling under the nets. Four are let go again, and the other two are
placed in a darkened store-cage, in which a struggling mass of birds are fluttering
and rasping their bills against the cruel wires. Poor terrified wretches!

1 Them wor hens as I let go,' he resumes, ' they bain't much use jest now, and
never is, except I've got a order for shootin'-matches; then sparrers an' anything
up tu starlin's cum in handy.

'Now I du set my fut on that sport as bein' in no-wise respectable; and ain't
it aginst all reason an' feelin's of kindliness tu shoot poor things as ain't a atom
of chance of excapin', except when sich fellers bang away as don't know one ind
of a gun from t'other ? I wouldn't let 'em have 'em, only I'm glad of the money
they fetches. I wor a long time afore I cud swaller my squeamishness over ketch-
in' bards at all. Yow see that right hand's crippled; I got that some yeers ago
in a thrashin' machine, and bein' no farther use for farm-work, and knowin' I
.must du summat, I bethowt me of doin a-this. Look heer, Jack Saunders, say's
I (that's me, yer know), ymtfll TicC ter du it, if yer likes it or not.

' When I seed my fust lot of bards a-raspin' madly at theer prison bars, a-
flutterin', poor things ! to find a way out agin, and shrilly pipin' in a scarified sort
of way with wexation an' terror, I cud ha' let 'em all go agin. But I didn't, for I
reasoned this wise. Thinks I, what is theer as we wear and use and eat and even
sleep on as wasn't at one time part of some other bein' as we'd robbed or killed
or sich like ? Why, the wery butes I'd on my feet was once on the back of a hoss
an' a bullock, and more an' one old hen wor kilt tu make that feather-bed !

i Then agin, thinks I, poor critters! yow'll be shet up in a little cage an' hung
up in some stuffy alley or out of some slum winder, tu breathe unpure air, and

SEPTEMBER IN BPOADLAND. 93

niver see green-stuffs agin, but then yow'll gladden some poor critter's heart with
your singin', remindin' 'em of yeers long gone by when they was country-folks
theerselves, and makin' sorryful hearts forget theer sadness in the pleasant mem'ries
of the past. And yow'll git yer grub for sure an' sartin. And so the squeamishness
wore off. And here I am, a-tryin' to catch 'em still, and ha' bin these sixteen yeer
an' more. I love the open country, and tu heer the jolly songs of the bards; I
never hurts 'em, and I don't know as I'm worse 'an many another naturalist l bloke,'
for don't some on 'em ketch an' kill, stick pins through beetles, rute up the wild
plants, knock over bards, or git others tu du it for 'em ? I know this 'ere job is
looked down on, but ; let him as is without fault hull the first stone,' and they
t mustn't chuck 1em as lives in glass housen.' So says I.'

OUK LITTLE CRUISER.

Much more about larks and greenfinches and a host of others is told us—
of their respective value and qualifications, of their ways and habits. The man's
calling and his environment all tend to make him a keen observer of nature in her
varied aspects. He tells us of his other ' doin's' — how that he ferrets for rats and
helps to trap vermin for the gamekeepers, and of a host of other i odd jobs' that
fall to his share in the circuit of the year ; and that all play their part in the
maintenance of ' hisself an' the old woman, and in keepin' 'em out of the workus.'
His patter would simply fill our columns, if placed therein in detail.

94 SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND.

Leaving our ' bikes ' in the care of the village innkeeper, we find ourselves at
length by the limpid waters of the Broad. We have been not a little amused and
interested in the droughty frequenters of the old 'Boar's Head,' some of whom have
arrived there earlier than ourselves, whilst others have been dropping in as we are

munching our cheese and biscuits, and sipping our glasses of gingerbeer. Big

strong fellows they are, with towy heads and tousled beards, whose lives have been
spent at the ploughtail and upon the fenland. Their attire is more accommodating
than picturesque, and more grotesque than fashionable. Fashions alter slowly and
stand for nothing in Broadland, save when Mary Ann has a few days' holiday from
her 'plaace,' and then she, in her less tasty than gaudy attire, becomes the transi-
ent envy of the village maidens. Our friends in ' wideawakes ' and fustians like
their beer, but generally have the good sense to avoid excess. There is the usual
small and tall talk that seems incidental to the pewter-pot and the ale-mug. Old
yarns are spun no doubt for the hundredth time, and it isn't all Grospel that is
dispensed in the village alehouse, any more than it is in the city ' snug.' But the
moral atmosphere in general is, fortunately, purer. The latest village intelligence
is sifted and dispensed in between their tippling; and by the time their pots are
empty each one knows that ' Gadder ' Duffel is blessed with his twenty-third baby
— that Farmer Stubbs' colt has broken its knees — and that the Squire's latest litter
of puppies is a likely * lot o' critters.' Much personal history has been raked over,
and even the 'wrong doin's of Parleymint ' have been rightsided by the village snob
and tailor, who are here, as everywhere else, ' the most knowin'some old fogies' in
the village democracy.

A trifling episode does much to vary this dull, monotonous, diurnal round of
conversation. An itinerant quack-doctor drops in with his baggage; he is trudg-
ing on his way townwards, but is glad of a rest and a refresher to break the irk-
someness of the journey. He is a keen, ready-witted fellow, with an eye to busi-
ness; why shouldn't his halt be turned to some account? Straightway he begins
to 'patter.' The host rests upon his elbows; open-mouthed, the unsophisticated
rustics take in his lecture. A slight wink at us passes unnoticed by the others. In
minutest detail, every ill, and many others, to which mortal man is subject is
expatiated upon — the usual ' pains in the back, dizziness in the head,' and all the
fearful catalogue — a hotch-potch of wisdom and eloquence, chiefly strung together
from circulars advertising patent medicines. Burly men are led to believe they
must be suffering from one complaint or another — or may do; and big freckled
hands dive deeply to where coppers are known to be in hiding. Boxes of the magic
pills, mostly concocted of soap and bread-crumbs, no doubt, are slipped in the places

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND. 95

rendered vacant by them. As the quack politely departs he gives us a supplemen-
tal wink, which this time is caught and interpreted by the snob and tailor. * I'm
gormed ! ' ejaculates the latter, ' if that 'ere fellar ain't a frawd ! ' and bolts out to
tell him so. But the ' frawd ' is too far on his journey again to be in any fear of
immediate retribution.

We are once again afloat, and bent on devoting the hour or so of our leisure
to a jolly little sail in the trim ' lateener J that has kindly been placed at our dis-
posal. With a favourable wind we sail up and down the Broad until we tire of the
fun; and rare fun it is, too, to feel yourself spinning along as if the craft beneath
you were a living thing — now this way and now that, speeds the buoyant vessel,
with the water hissing around your bows, and bubbling astern as you cleave the
sparkling waters. You feel a delightful exhilaration, a pleasant excitement, as you
dash past swaying reeds and nodding rushes, and the remnant of the water-lilies
part to let you speed on and on. You forget awhile the cares that press heavily
upon you in the toiling work-a-day world, and you return to them all the better
able to cope with their stern realities. The coots and the moorhens fly into the
shelter of the densest reeds, and wonderingly hold their peace as you bear down
upon them, and mayhap scandalise you with returning confidence. But a con-
tinuity of pleasure, like that of work and worry, becomes wearisome at length ;
and presently we glide into a secluded nook, lower sails, and make the painter fast.
We step out upon a low-lying fen. We have promised to take home a few Broad-
land plants to a botanist friend of ours. Here before us they lie, spread in con-
fusion ; unfortunately most of them have done flowering, and are past their best.
We gather a few that we may, and may not, get thanked for. Here is the marsh
cinque-foil, one of the sundews, the marsh veronica; some half-a-dozen others
complete the list, for before we've had time to travel far across the shaking bog the
weather has assumed so threatening an appearance that it is deemed advisable to
make for the shelter of an old boat-house at a not far distant corner of the Broad.
Away over the ruffled surface we glide, reaching the tumble- down place only just
in time to avoid a pelting shower.

We have seen but few birds to-day. Kapid movement is, of course, prejudi-
cial to observation, and is anything but appreciated by the quiet-loving creatures
whose haunts we are intruding upon. A few late swallows are still darting up
and down; but they, like their prey, have become perceptibly scarcer. Many of

96 SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND.

the sedge-birds have taken their departure ; but while the soft-billed species are
sensibly decreasing, hard-billed seed-eaters are en evidence. The whistle of the
greenfinch, the pink pink of the chaffinch, and the familiar call of the linnet, as
small parties pass overhead, are heard from time to time. There is a marked
absence of bird-song. There is a decided quietude in the outlook, too ; there are
fewer yachts, and the bulk of the anglers have already put their rods aside for the
season, and have shouldered the gun instead. The unhappy coveys of partridges
are faring badly; while the corn was yet standing they had a safe and ready re-
treat from many of their enemies, but the stubble is cut so short that it offers them

DISCIPLES OF IZAAK WALTON.

a very poor hiding-place ; and their worst enemy is out afield in search of them.
In the daytime they are glad to skulk in the groves and covers, and at night, for
fear of marauding animals, they seek the open. The report of the gun becomes a
familiar sound.

The boat-house is a rude structure, and in a state fast verging on decay.
Through a hole in the roof an alder is pushing its leafy branches. In amongst
the thatch the sparrows often make merry. A pair of marsh tits are flitting and
scrambling amongst the rafters; they are in quest of hiding insects.

But we are not the only temporary tenants of the old shed; a big, brawny
fellow, with a game-bag slung beside him, from which the brown head of a wild

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND. 97

duck is protruding, has arrived before us. His costume betrays his avocation. He
is a game-keeper. Like most men who lead a lonely existence, he is reserved and
cautious, but like them, when once thawed into conversation, becomes communica-
tive enough. It is some minutes before we are on such good terms; we silently
watch the downfall together. Keassured by the quietude, the waterfowl venture
out again into the open, grebes and their striped progeny, and coots with a younger
generation nearly as large as themselves, and a whole family of moorhens paddle
out from the reed-clump, some to vanish in the one opposite, the remainder to dip
and play and fish until disturbed again by our unwelcome presence.

' See them starlings ? ' our new friend queries, pointing to a huge flock com-
prising some hundreds wheeling and manoeuvring in a most well-timed and mar-
vellous fashion. ' Well, I'm goin' ter give them what cheer 0 ! this evenin/ My
guv'ner ha' suffered enough from them a-settin' on the reeds or roostin', that he
says I must du some execution among 'em. Yow'd be astonished at the damage
they du a-breaking down big patches of 'em. Theer's at least a quarter of an acre
spiled a'ready in that patch in front of us. I doan't like wholesale slaughter, but
a feller is paid tu du his duty. Yow'll think it funny, but I like 'em for eatin' as
well as I du any bird as is a-flyin' ! I skin 'em, cut their hinder parts away, and
bake 'em in a pie. Some of them poor rogues '11 be in a pie to-morrer. That's
the one redeemin' feature in the business.

'I git larfed at for some of my notions. I'm teetotal; that's somethin' new
hereabouts in a gamekeeper, not as I know many on 'em as are drunkards. I
doan't want ter become one, so, thinks I, pervention's better 'an a cure. My class,
yow know, tu, often get a downright love for killin' almost everything they come
across. They think they're doin' theer duty, and so they kill every mortal thing
as they imagine is likely tu du theer game birds a mischief either in the egg or
feather. Law, gentlemen, we've got credit for doin' the biggest mischief in the
way of wipin' out our rarer birds — and with some degree of truth, I'll allow ye.
Lost British Birds * ha' put down that tu our credit. Theer's a book, you know,
of that name jest published. Well, I was a-readin' it and thinks I, Jack Manly
(that's me, yow know) ain't so bad, I guess, as some of his neighbours. No more
is his master. He is doin' his best tu presarve some of the species, and I aids an'
abets him, for, as I've thought these yeers past, what a pity it is that our native
races of birds should be wiped out as they are. Theer's so many causes a-workin'
against 'em. Drainage and cultiwation — then them abominable Cockney sportsmen
as blaze away for killin' sake only, from sparrers up'ards, then specimen hunters,

* ' Lost British Birds ' (1894), by W. H. Hudson, published by the Society for the Protection of Birds. N

98

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND.

as have collections — too many on 'em neither use judgment nor common-sense;
they'll spend a hat -full of money, and du anything a'most tu get a rare 'un in order
tu stuff it, and shet it up in theer crowded cases. More's the shame so many of
my fraternity encourage 'em, and bows the knee tu ' filthy lucre,' and glory in
killin' the poor doomed critters beside.

VVOMACK BROAD

' Then the ' wermin ' we're supposed tu slaughter. Some makes awful mistakes
about them. Of course, we're paid tu du suffin', but it's left a great deal tu our dis-
cretion. Some uneddicated, stupid fules are dead-set on barn owls. Why, never
a better game preserver cud theer be. It's rats, gentlemen, rats, as du more mis-
chief tu game than anything else. And owls is mortal enemies tu 'em. Then
where comes the sense of killin' them ? Every little hawk is outlawed. Give me
plenty -of kestrels, says I — look! theer go a couple yinder !— and I'll wager the
field-mice '11 not prosper. Kill yer kestrels, foster yer field-mice, and where's yer

SEPTEMBER IN BROADLAND. 99

corn-stacks ? The poor farmer is the greatest sufferer. Then theer's bigger birds
of prey as is all but extinct with us. When I was a nipper, hen-harriers and marsh-
harriers wasn't so scarce as now. Now, I think hawks doan't du near the harm tu
game as they git credit for. I think, like Canon Tristram, that ' they're the perlice
of nature ' — runnin9 in, in more ways 'an one, the weaklin's and the sickly. Healthy
game knows how tu take care of theerselves most often; if landowners an' keepers
was only tu read up and obsarve and measure theer brains aginst prejudices, things
'ud alter summat. But they doan't, and so they kills an' kills, and thus cleer out
the innercent critters.

1 An' then, see what improvements ha' bin made with guns: folks must hev
breechloaders — an' what chance hev birds agin 'em ? It's bang ! bang ! as fast as
yow like. More's the pity the old muzzle-loaders hev had theer day : they did give
'em a chance, and theer was some excitement when yow had to load an' keep yer
eye about yow while yer did it. Disappointment in shootin', from the bird's some-
times escapin' yow, made yer ultimate success all the more excitin' an' pleasurable.
Yow see, I still sticks to my old muzzier.

' Protection's doin' good here, gents. We've more ducks 'an ever; snipes ha'
bred this yeer on the fen yow was walkin' over, and not far away was more 'an one
nest of ruffs an' reeves t' year. I doan't mind tellin' yow, 'cos yow ain't likely ever
to disturb 'em. A pair of bitterns laid theer eggs there tu, but some lout of a wisi-
tor found 'em. I copt him jest as he'd blown 'em. But I cracked 'em for 'im, and
done a'most as much tu that stupid head of his. Not as I did right, but the law
would only ha' fined him for trespass. Theer, thinks I, I can dispense better
justice, and du it summarily. He wanted to square me with half-a-sov'rign. I took
it, bless yer, but when I chucks the half-a-nicker in the broad, yer should ha' seen
him look ! I guess he oan't come here agin in a hurry.

1 This slaughter, in course, is good for some of the small birds which ha'
become a nuisance, sparrers in pertikler.

1 Look 'ere, gents, theer's a lot as want right-sidin'. Why doan't the law
protect birds' eggs ? Ain't egg-collectin', for instance, thinned out the different
plovers ? Look at yon pewits. Time was when we'd thousands bred here : thousands
of eggs was taken. Now what a sorry few theer are. What more useful bird can
yer find, as wipes off worms an' grubs as they did ? Then what is theer nicer than
seein' all sorts of characteristic birds around yer ?

100 SEPTEMBER IN BROAD LAND.

' But law, 'bor, 'tisn't no use a-talkin'; tew much of the mischief's done. Avo-
cets an' harriers, black-tailed godwits, spune-bills an' bitterns ha' slipped us, only
stragglers turnin' up at intervals. In yon alder carr, I've heerd my dad say, ' blue
dorrs' (black terns) bred in his younger days by hundreds. We only see now a few
in spring on passage.

i And yet I live by slaughter ! Well, gentlemen, that's my callin', sure-fo/.
But though I du raise partridges an' pheasants, I use a little common-sense in
what I point my gun at. And du I believe in the wholesale slaughter of game
birds ? Wai, I doan't see no harm in it any more 'an killin' chickens, for ain't they
more 'an half domesticated, and bred a purpose ? '

A half-hour's chat with this strange conglomeration of philosopher and keeper
leads to many other interesting topics, but time is on the wing, and we say good-
day to the honest fellow. The shower has passed over, and nature has assumed a
most delightful aspect. We row our boat to her mooring-place, for the wind has
failed us. An aged fenman is examining his eel-set as we jump ashore, and we fain
would edge him into gossip, but the wing of time is still fluttering. The loud boom
of the keeper's gun bespeaks the discomfiture of the starlings which have, unluckily
for themselves, wheeled within range of his ' fowling-piece.'

A bunch of wild fowl pass overhead in hurried flight. A wren chatters on a
sallow stump beside us, a weasel vanishes in the undergrowth at a hedge hard by
it, and a couple of swans are probing the muddy bottom of a little ' beck ' on our
left.

We drop in at the { Blue Boar '* to enjoy a late but welcome dinner. We are
this time sole occupants of the sanded parlour, save for the presence of the host
himself, who has much to ask and much to answer. And what appetites we've
been acquiring! Two hours later and our steeds are in their usual places in our
homes in the busy town.

THE HORNPIES' LEAD.

OCTOBEK IN BKOADLAND.

1 Along the woods, along the moorish fens.
Sighs the sad Genius of the coming storm.

<? 0 0 0 0

The wanderers of heaven,
Each to his home retire, save those that love
To take their pastime in the troubled air,
Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool.'

— Thomson.

missing

DECIDED change has crept, almost imperceptibly, over Broadland,
and the face of nature in general. The eddying winds of autumn are
making inroads among the * sere and yellow' leaves that tint the hedge-
row and the woodland, but which are yet beautiful to look upon even
in their decay; the approach of winter has already made its influence
felt among the tribes of earth and air. The summer birds are entirely

the chinking notes of the redbreast become almost as familiar as the

102 OCTOBER IN BROADLAND,

chirruping of the sparrows ; and the sweeter sounds that greeted us in the sunnier
days have given place to harsher cries and wilder call-notes.

The holidays are over ; the seaside watering-places have assumed their nor-
mal appearance; no longer the huge trains of joyous excursionists and the heavily
laden steam-boats pour forth their loads of holiday-making humanity ; the towns
and cities have settled down again for a long spell of serious work. The dwellers
in the quiet country are still busy in the fields, for a prospective harvest in the
coming year demands their following the ploughshare and the harrow. Contented
Hodge is whistling at the plough-tail, his merry ' Who-oaa, Dobbin! ' bespeaking
the completion of another furrow.

The white-winged craft that recently crowded the silent-flowing river are
absent, the river-ways and the lagoons of Broadland are no longer ploughed by the
sharp bows of the swift-gliding yachts — -nothing but the huge tanned sails of the
wherries may be seen speeding their devious ways among the sedge-lined rivers
and reed-surrounded broads. On many a sloping shore the dismasted yachts may
be found, there to remain until another springtime shall see them spick-and-span,
ready to glide down again into their favourite element once more.

We shall have a quiet run-up to-day, and it is a strange little craft in which
we hope to reach the Broads.

' Though I say it myself,' says Skipper Bessey, ' there ain't her likes on the
Broads an' rivers for miles around, and there ain't another as is built for the self-
same purpose — and let get her clear of the town, and you'll see what a merry little
thing she is ! '

Our skipper is an eel-merchant, and as such has been known to the fen-men
far and near for the last thirty years; hundreds of tons of eels have passed through
his hands. Our vessel is simply a big ship's gig, with a streak or two added to her
height, her sharp stem and stern and cutter-rig giving her an exceedingly rakish
appearance. At the fall of the year, when eels are ' running,' and the eel-catchers
are busy with their eel-sets, up and down she plies, going empty, returning full,
sometimes with several hundredweights in her i well.' Fore and aft the craft is
buoyant ; indeed at the stern is a famously snug cabin in which the skipper and
his man make comfortable when on their strange voyaging to and fro. Midway
the vessel is one huge tank, the sides of it being perforated with innumerable
holes for the free ingress of water. What a squirming mass of living things will
there be below-decks on her return !

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. 103

It is blowing stiffly as we reach the open marshland; we have a flowing tide
and a famous south-easter, which strengthens into half a gale ere we have been
many miles on our voyage. How the trim thing spins along, with every stitch of
canvas crowded on — mainsail, topsail, and jib !

Several wherries are speedily overhauled, fast as they are sailing, although
with shortened sail and with their lee plank ways under water — our vessel is well
ballasted, and our worthy skipper knows her capabilities, and we fancy is amused
at our slight uneasiness, for now and again she heels over somewhat unpleasantly.
The marsh-houses, the pump-mills, and the remnant of the cattle on the marshes
flit quickly by, and a bubbling eddy of white foam surges behind us. The wherry-
men salute us in their rough pleasant way as we pass them, and throw out not un-
pleasant eulogies on the white-bearded skipper and his dashing ' Polly.' But the
wind shows signs of strengthening, and it is thought best to strike the topsail.
Yet we tear along with undiminished speed.

' You was axin', sir,' Bessey resumes, with his hand upon the tiller, ' about
them eel-sets. See yinder's one, hangin' on stakes tudry; it's old Billy Nicholls'.
Theer's old Billy hisself in the stern-sheets of his houseboat, a-washin' hisself. It's
time he had a scrub, I reckon; but law, 'bor, you can't tell mud from sun-tan on
them old fellars, they get so coloured up by strong air an' sunshine that mud an
clothes an' men seem all of a piece.'

< Mornin', Billy ! '

6 Mornin', Bessey ! ' returns the old man of the muds, ' give us a call on yer
way back.'

* All right ! ' replies our skipper, and keeps on.

' We was talkin' of eel-sets, sir, you know as well as I do that in the fall of the
year myriads of eels return to the sea, from whence they came in springtime as
tiny elvers no bigger 'an darnin' needles. Some big naturalists tell us as how
these older ones don't return. I beg to differ, for what's them as we catch in
springtime a-working up the rivers ? Anyway, in September an' October they
take a fit for a sea-trip, and your Broadman knows it, and 'tis to his advantage to
stop 'ern. So he just does his best to do it. What with babbin' and pickin', much
is done; but for whackin' hauls there's nothing to beat the ' sets.' In the day our
eel-man does his snoozin', at night he keeps his wits about him. His eel-set, stretched
across the river, must be watched, or passin' craft would spoil his little game. As
you saw by that eel-set as was dryin', it ain't much unlike a trawl-net. Like a

104

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND.

wall of network the fore-part's placed athwart the stream, corks keepin' the top
afloat, lead sinkers keepin' all smart below. What about the wherries cuttin' it ?
Wai, it's like this, there's two or three lines fastened to the top line; these run
through blocks fixed to stakes in the river bottom. It ain't a warm job always, to
keep watch at night, you think; but ain't your eel-bloke as tough as most folk ?
and ain't his kettle of hot tea allers on the hob ? If a wherryman looms up, he

A FAIR WIND AND A FLOWING TIDE.

sings out to the t'other, who slacks the rope, pulls the lines, and down goes the
top line, and there you are. Wherrymen know where they're set as well as the
eel-blokes do, and t'ain't often as damage is done.

' Three or four openin's in this wall of net have long eighteen or twenty feet
purse-nets attached, which, as you saw, are kept open by means of hoops, fastened
to 'em. These ' pods,' as they term 'em, are laid and staked down-stream, their
positions bein' marked by floats. Funnel-shaped fixin's inside, of course, make it

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. 105

awkward for the eels to get out agin. Eeturn tickets ain't issued, 'bor, you may
lay your hand to your heart on that. Sometimes they do well, sometimes badly;
dirty weather an' a wanin' moon suits the business best.

1 But come down, sir, afore you leave us; breakfast's ready, an' don't that
kettle of tea smell just refreshin' an' delicious ? '

We leave the eel-merchant getting ready to resume his up-river voyage, for
we have been moored to a staith while breakfast was being discussed, and much
fish and folk-lore with it; we wish we could have invited the reader down into that
snug warm cabin, and surely he would have relished the humble meal of brown
bread and cheese, and enjoyed it none the less for the novelty of the situation and
an increased appetite, nor have hesitated to wash it down with a basin of steam-
ing, milkless tea.

We make our way along the river-bank towards the little brick bridge which
spans the stream. Our eel-man has ' shot ' it, and with upraised mast and sails
has again caught the breeze. How the wind sways the quivering reeds to and fro!
now bending low as it strikes them, they lower their woolly-head tufts, as if some
giant reaper had drawn his scythe through their slender stems, but a moment after
they have lifted again, to be swayed in another direction. Like the troubled waves
of the wild North Sea, they are incessantly in motion. Their dry leaves rustle like
the sound of shingle thrown up by the curling sea-waves. A heron rises with
startled scream from a ditchside, and lets fall an eel as he mounts upon his great
grey wings and takes to flight ; a moorhen runs in a skulking manner upon the
broken sedges that line the ditch-margin, jerking its funny white tail-feathers,
and then vanishes in a clump of rushes. Nature has assumed a somewhat desolate
appearance. A pavement of decaying leaves marks where the water-lilies spread
their summer-time beauties; the iris, and many another characteristic Broad-plant
are flowerless, and leaf and stem have become yellow and shrivelled. The Broad-
land botanist has all but discontinued his rambles, but has plenty to do in the long
evenings in arranging specimens he has already collected. The alders and willows
shake their decaying foliage in the blast, and many a leaf falls into the debris that
has been blown in a tangled mass beneath their overhanging branches. The swans,
with their still grey cygnets, pay scant heed to the fury of the elements. A flock
of wild ducks pass overhead, and yonder long-billed birds, dashing by sideways to
the wind, must be curlews, their weird, mellow call-notes unmistakably proving

o

10(5 OCTOBER IN SROADLAND.

our conjecture to be correct. A puff of smoke from a bunch of reeds on the rond
by the river is followed by the fall of one of their number. The report is from
none other than Jim Trett's fowling-piece ; her * bark,' as the fenman describes it,
is unmistakable, and out from his lair the old man stalks, and retrieves his fallen
game. We would not disturb him, but the good fellow seeing us, beckons us
towards him.

6 That's a dinner for the old woman tu-morrow,' he informs us after a shake
of his horny fist and the usual salutation. * Some folks be tew pertikler, 'bor, and
tell yer curlew ain't grand eatin' — but they doan't know, yer see, it's jist becos
they've eaten 'em when they wasn't in their prime. D'ye see ? This'll du, 'bor,
for it's a young'un, an' jist off the northern moors where 'twere bred an' born, its
grub was lob-worams an' insex an' other bog-livin' critters. I've heerd my old dad
say as how

' A curlew, be she white, or be she black,
She carries twelvepence on her back.'

Not as it's worth a bob tu me, 'bor; anyway, it ain't spiled it's flavour yet, as it
would sune ha' done down at the sea-coast on a salt-water diet. Lay yow down,
look kedgey ! (lively), and mind that pulk-hole ! (mud-puddle).'

A loud report follows the old man's ' sight ' down the long, bright barrel,
which he has been loading during his eulogy on the curlew. This time a lapwing
is slain, and as we peer through an opening in the reeds we see the poor thing
stopped short in its flight, turn over, and with extended wings fall like a clod upon
the rond, from which it rebounds several inches with the impact. Jim Trett
evidently knows well the ' lay ' of the country, and that certain spots are used
as 4 leads ' by various wild birds.

* Here, 'bor,' he resumes, ( hornpies (lapwings) or pe-weeps, as some call 'em,
gin'rally lead this time o' the year. Arter feedin' on them meshes (marshes) be-
hind them fir-trees yinder, they cum back in the mornin' tu the uplands tu preen
theer plumage an' nap till nightfall. Here cum tew or three more. I'll whistle
'em.'

The fellow's wrinkled face puckers up as he imitates the hornpie's familiar
cry. But though they answer to it, they fly wide of him. We leave him to his
own devices, and make towards the Broad, after promising to drop in at eventide
to discuss the merits of an ' old hernshaw (heron) as he'd kilt the night afore on
the meshes.'

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. 107

The breeze has upset Jim's arrangements for the day — had the weather been
different he would have been out roach-fishing, with a gentleman who is keen upon
the pastime — as it is, this angler, he informs us, had gone to the ' Fenman's Shel-
ter,' and Jim, as we saw him, had made the best of matters by ' airin' old Peggy,'
his favourite fowling-piece, ' an' shutin' for what he couldn't arn ' — his dinner.

THE WRITER IN HIS PUNT.

Dropping in at the ' Fenman's Shelter,' we find the aforesaid roach-angler —
a plump, well-nourished, fussy gentleman, who seems alternately amusing himself
with sipping a mug of ale and munching biscuits, reading a week-old ( Telegraph,'
and peering in a fidgety sort of way out of the window at the weather. We are
soon on a friendly footing, and the little man waxes exceeding chatty.

108 OCTOBER IN BROADBAND.

* A rum fellow is that Jim Trett,' he remarks, when the weather and divers
other subjects have been commented upon, 'and he's but a type of your unadulterated
fenmen, who, alas! are a generation which these days of breechloaders, railways,
drainage, and School Boards will soon supersede by a mongrel following. 'The
fashion of this world passeth away,' I've heard our parson say, and it's a downright
pity that your fenman has been included in the category. Education in particu-
lar is playing the excuse me, sir, I'd nearly dropped an old-fashioned English

word with a ' u' in the middle of it, havoc, I mean, with their strange super-
stitions ; it is weeding out many of their queer, old-time provincialisms, and will
some day convert their quaint Norfolk dialect into dull, terse, unmelodious English.

' In Marshall's ' Kural Economy of Norfolk,' written over a hundred years ago,
he tells us that ( there is an alertness in the servants and labourers of Norfolk
which I have not observed in any other district.' Then he says a lot more, and in
contrasting them with their Kentish duplicates, makes regular models, of them
as to manners, gait, and air. He might have been a Norfolk man himself. Now,
I don't go so far as that if I am to compare your Norfolkese of then with their
descendants of to-day. I'll grant you it will be difficult to find others to beat them
at honesty, sobriety, and workishness. Times have altogether altered, too, since
then. A hundred years ago Hodge was a boarder with his ' maaster,' he was bred
and born on the ' faarm,' worked there all his days, and 'deed 'there, and perhaps
was happier on his five pounds ten per annum, and his board and lodging, than he
is to-day. Perhaps not, for he's certainly freer to-day ; he has his franchise, and
can please himself in his choice of masters — but then, increased pay doesn't go
for everything — for if he gets thirteen shillings a week, there has been a corres-
ponding rise in what he has to spend. Times have gone against him, and ma-
chinery and foreign competition have seriously handicapped him. Many a fine
young fellow's had to budge, and emigrate, go to sea, or find a billet in the over-
crowded towns. Those who follow the sea, and alternate it with work ashore, seem
to do fairly well; but a fisherman's calling is an uncertain affair. Many of the
young strapping fellows are now following the North Sea herring fishery.

' Here, landlord, bring us some eggs and bacon, and a jug of coffee.' So orders
our talkative friend.

' While we're discussing these matters, we'll improve the time, and ere after-
noon has arrived the wind may have dropped a bit. Just look at that troop of larks
flying over! They're Norwegians immigrating to our less inhospitable climate for
the winter.

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. 109

Several flocks follow in rapid succession; a number of wild geese are discerned
high aloft; and on a hawthorn hedge across the ' pightle' (small field) a number
of fieldfares are seen busily plucking the ripening berries ; and the note of the
redwing is heard.

1 As to superstitions, there's a lot of queer notions still afloat — (thank you,
landlord) — Now then, sir, help yourself. You can't get fen-folk to do business on
a Friday — those who follow the sea won't cross the bar, either, on that day, if they
can help it; and as to walking under a ladder, why, it's equally unlucky. Prim-
roses and poppies carried into a house are both bearers of bad luck, and for a
cuckoo to fly over it, well, they'd as lief see the father of lies do it. Don't meet
a cross-eyed party when you go to market; better stop at home. See three cuckoos
on a walk, and you'll have a death in the house ere long. Someone is sure to
die if peacocks' feathers are brought into the house. The hoot of an owl is
more than uncanny; a red bee flying in at the door or window portends the
arrival of a gentleman ; a white bee signifies a lady.

6 1 could tell you a lot more. See ! I've quite a note-book full of folk-lore. But
the bacon's getting cold. Now then, landlord, some cheese and biscuits, please.'

1 Believe me, faith in witchcraft hasn't yet died out, and the ' evil eye,' with-
out a doubt, blinks at times.

' Did you see the landlord spit on the floor just now ? He no more wanted
to than I do ; that white horse driven by the house was the innocent cause of it.
It was lucky to expectorate.

1 Our landlord is known as 4 Loper ' Grey. Ask in the village for Nathaniel,
and few will know him as such. Lope is Norfolk for stride, his long legs have
earned him his cognomen. Nicknames are all the go in Broadland; some peculiar
or curious personal characteristic, or even some exploit, irretrievably christens a
fellow. ' Prettymouth ' Hewitt, i Boxer' Brown, ' Grumpy ' Johnson, l Cadger'
Read, and a host of others might be cited. If you want to find a village notoriety,
make sure of his nickname rather than his family one, for it may be he's known
only by the former.

6 As to dress, there's as much canvas and fustian about the Broadman as will
cover him, and a broad-brimmed felt hat, worn a la Mephistopheles, completes
his rig-out, barring his ' butes,' and boots they are, something like small cradles
for size and pattern, and as inartistic as an ironing box.

' But the wind's gone down a bit. What say you to a row across the Broad?'

110

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND.

The wind has so far spent itself (Jim Trett said he thought it would ease
when the tide ceased flowing) that we can with safety venture out. A few strokes,
and we turn a bend in the river, then up a reed-fringed lane of water, and we are
on the open Broad. The surface is still agitated, though it matters not much to
the grebes yonder, diving and disporting in the cool waters. They find it quiet
below ; and the small roach, crowding into the deep holes in the more sheltered

THE SILENT HIGHWAY.

4 bight,' fall an easy prey to the sharp-billed creatures. We row along under the
lee of a reed-bed, in which the clicking of the coots makes strange music; a parcel
of reed-pheasants (bearded-tits) fly off from some woolly reed-tufts, and still more
larks pass overhead. The froth, churned by the wind from the troubled waters,
drifts in amongst the floating leaves that are entangled among the reedstems. A
turn in the clump brings us into the teeth of the wind, and veritable ' white horse-
men ' splash over the boat's bows and wet our belongings. We soon tire of this,

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. Ill

and make for a rond that is made gay by the blue flowers of the Michaelmas daisy,
and fastening the boat, pick our way across the squashy bog, disturbing two or
three snipe as we follow a foot-track that winds its sinuous way across to a higher
level. This circuitous, swampy footpath has been worn by Jim Trett's 'highlows,'
and trends towards the good man's domicile. It must not be thought that we
have kept silence, for our friend is irrepressible.

'Now for a rare treat in the way of food for mind and body/ says he, 'for
you'll get both at the fenman's cottage.'

The wind has lulled considerably now, and streaks of blue intersect the hitherto
dull monotony of cloudland ; the rain has held off wonderfully; nothing more than
the merest sprinkling has fallen. We sit down awhile to muse and gossip, our
friend still unreeling his inexhaustible store of Broadland folk-lore.

It is early when we enter the fenman's cottage. The old lady gives us a
hearty welcome. Mr. Talkative nudges us and whispers that ' the ' old gal ' is an
original.'

' Why, Mr. Thingummy, I ain't seed ye for never, I ain't ! how's all yer fam'ly ?'
queries she, as she clasps his fat, freckled hand in her own wrinkled biceps.

6 Sit ye down a bit, tea's jest riddy, and Jim '11 be in airly tu-day, 'specially
as he knows yer cum. Why ! here he cum — an' wha's the owd fule a golderin'
(laughing) like that for? Why, Jim, it du fare (seem) funny for yow tu hain
(lift) yer eyebrows like a big grinnin' mawther (girl). Yow ain't so sadla, 'bor, I
kin see, as yow wor when yer went out. Wha's up wi' ye ? '

1 Wai, old woman, I jest now seed narber (neighbour) Cubitt a comin' hoam
with his owd dickey (donkey). Jest as they reached Loper Grey's it got skeered,
and began a-dancin'; wal, off cum a wheel, an' a tub of swill, as he'd gone an'
fetched, flew off along with him — down went dickey and tub an' Cubitt into a
holl (dry ditch) togither. What with dumplin' and grease an' sich like, wal, bor,
in all yar born days niver did ye see sich a sight, neither fore nor arter ! ' And
the old fellow roars again at the very recollection of it.

'Take note of the words ! ' says Mr. Talkative, 'for they're rale Broad Nor-
folk!'

It is a pleasant time that we spend over the good folk's tea-table. Jim Trett,
having oiled his gun and hung it up, and his frail-basket of game, the aforesaid
curlew and lapwing, to which has been added a mallard, and having made himself
presentable, sits down beside us. Need we detail the savoury viands presented ?

112 OCTOBER IN BROADLAND.

Grood tasty heron, hot potatoes, mushrooms from the marshes, garden beet from
the cultivated patch surrounding, boiled pike and potted eel, and a f whopper '
of a blackberry pie to finish with. What more need we say of them? Jim
Trett brings forth from his memory-locker many a stirring adventure, for there
are such to be met with in Broadland, much that is interesting about fish and bird
and animal, about shooting swans and snaring pike, ferreting and trapping,
and what not ! Several pages in the ' folk-lore diary ' are scribbled full, as the
good man plies his yarn, whilst the old lady keeps dropping her knitting upon
her lap to listen, for, long after our appetites are satisfied does the chat continue.

Behold us, just in time at the Broadland Station — but for ' narber ' Cubitt's
1 dickey,' we might have missed our train. The wheel had been replaced, the
vagrant litch-pin readjusted, and both Cubitt an.d the trap had undergone a
sousing. And couldn't that little ' dickey ' spin along !

Next day's flood-tide finds us leaving our boat-house at the entrance of
far-famed Breydon. Our craft is a characteristic Norfolk punt, our business — the
slaughtering of the innocents; but not so much that, perhaps, as observation.
October ushers in the great migratorial movement of the birds. All our summer-
birds have reached warmer lands by the second week of it; their places have been
filled by the hardier races from the more hostile north. Snowbuntings, twites,
larks, wax wings, and a host of other land-birds, most as common, and many rarer,
usurp our woodlands, meadows, and wastelands where the cuckoo, wheat ear, chiff-
chaff, and others dwelt in summer-time; our mud-flats and sandy sea-shores resound
with the varied cries of wading birds, and the estuary waters are lively with the
wild fowl that float upon them. We cannot enter into this interesting subject,
for a volume alone would cover it.

* The ' flats ' will soon be covered. Great ' grey ' gulls and immature, of the
blackheaded species, with a sprinkling of others, winnow their way to and fro,
snatching up fragments of fish and grease floating on the surface of the brown
waters. Yonder stalks a grey heron — small flounders and juvenile shorecrabs
suit him just as well as the frogs and roach of fresher waters.

Much might be said of the gradual change which has been creeping over
Breydon during half-a-century. In the early part of it a number of men gained
a fairly remunerative living by shooting the teal and widgeon and pochards that

OCTOBER IN BROADLAND. 113

used to crowd here; many a rare bird, too, like the spoonbill, avocet, black-tailed
godwit, and others fell to their guns. These, with black terns, phalaropes, and
other rarities, and crowds of the commoner curlews, bartailed godwits, knots, and
grey-plovers — these last three in their striking nuptial plumage — dropped in in
springtime on their way north, and again in autumn, after the duties of procreation
had ended. What hauls, before the ' close seasons' were instituted, did the hardy
wild-fowlers make at times! But great changes have taken place in their one-
time favourite habitats. And now October finds us with fewer birds to shoot, or
look at.

As we drift and paddle up-stream, the calls of a few curlews, ringed plovers,
dunlins, and mayhap, of some less common species, ring out over the rippling
waste of waters.

A short way ahead of us, upon the shelving mud, are half-a-dozen small grey
birds. They are about as large as doves. Grive us the glasses. What pretty little
fellows! they are knots. What are they doing? Two are splashing thigh deep
in the shallow, washing their already spotlessly clean plumage. The others are
nimbly running here and there in search of red ragworms, or any small unfortunate
crustacean that may have been playing in a tiny puddle. Now they all t bunch
up,' run a short way again, then turn, and innocently eye us, as we come within
gunshot. A strange weeting cry of alarm escapes one ; but, as if still willing to
trust us, they remain motionless. Shall we fire now? No! let the poor things go,
why should we harm them ? We remain looking down the barrel of our redoubt-
able old eight -bore. We do not hesitate long. A mallard comes whizzing past,
but we ' draw bead ' upon him, and his fall headlong into the water follows the
report. We can eat him. Such are the tender mercies of the wild-fowler.

A MISTY MORNING.

NOVEMEEE IN BKOADLAND.

Buy my caller herrin' ! Ye little ken their worth,

Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? Oh ye may call them vulgar f arin' ;

Wives and mithers, maist despairin',

Ca' them lives o' men.' — Lady Nairn.

COLD, damp drizzle generally ushers in the dreariest of the Broadland
months — November. It is the month of fogs and mists ; and

* Driving sleets deform the day.'

Jim Trett, the fenman's, opinion would be that ' Nowember's neither
heer nor theer — nor one thing nor th' 'tother — a kind o' dade an' alive
affair ! ' The last remnants of the sere and withered leaves are stripped
from the branches of the woodland trees, and they lie, a natural matting, to protect
the tender shoots of a future generation of wild plants which love to spread their
flowers in the glade and on the hedgebank. Flora is not dead, but taking needful
repose.

Intervals of pleasant weather occasionally brighten the face of Nature, and
the sunlight flings the shadows of the trees distinctly upon the land, and we are
tempted forth to lengthy rambles. Such a morning finds us in the train which
6 fusses ' along through Broadland. There is scarcely a breath of wind, and the
rays of the morning sun are dazzling after days of storm and mist and gloom.

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND. 115

* Ah. ! 'bor — •' volunteers a son of old Ocean who has made himself comfortable
in his rough and ready fashion in the same compartment as ourselves, and between
whose knees dangles a string of silvery herrings — * This here's only a waather-
breeder, yow jist see if I ain't far out from bein' right. Goodness knows we've had
a tidy spell o' bad waather this month. Law! how that blowed the airly part of
last week ! ' After having delivered himself of this comment he relapses awhile
into silence; some unpleasant reminiscences, mayhap, are passing before his mental
vision. We refrain from unduly intruding upon his cogitations, and peering out
from the carriage window we catch a glimpse of the sea, now placidly rippling and
gleaming as if

' — in its summer play

As gentle as a child.'

Great gulls, mostly 'greys ' (the immature of the greater saddlebacks), amongst
which may be distinguished a few of their blacker-backed elders, and several herring-
gulls, and their smaller relatives, the Larus ridibundus, are winnowing their way
on easy pinions to and fro, playfully dipping to the surface of the water to snatch
up fragments of herrings and other animal refuse as their keen eyes espy them.
Over the nearer marrum-covered sand-hills several white-winged snowbuntings are
hunting for seeds of the various ' dune ' plants that flourished there in the warmer
days. In flight they are exceedingly conspicuous. And the grey-mantled hooded
crow — recently arrived from the Norwegian fjords — loafs here and there, ready to
pounce upon wounded fowl or any carrion that less foul-feeding creatures have
passed carelessly by. We might, perhaps, have noticed the various changes in the
country through which we are being rapidly borne along, but our brawny-shouldered,
guernsey-clad fisher friend, who has distributed one or two characteristic expecto-
rations upon the floor, and replenished his capacious cheeks with a fresh section of
* twist,' becomes talkative, and monopolises our attentions. Nothing loth, we settle
to a friendly gossip, and let him spin his yarn.

( Yow are right, 'bor, we hev had some rummy waather, and only this time
last week I never reckoned on comin' home tu my old gal ag'in. Boy an' man, I
ha' followed the sea off an' on this twenty yeer, but I ain't had sich a neer 'un
afore. I doan't like the sea a sight, and doan't know anyone as du; if they say
they du — they lie ; theer, 'bor, tha's straight. Anyhow, I mane them as go a-fishin'
an' smackin' on the North Sea. It'll du middlin' in summer, but it cuts up rough
in winter; an', little or much, it's rough pretty gin'rally. Us Broadland folk —
many on us, yer know, ha' tu eke out a livin' partly ashore an' partly afloat; loads
(many) foller it up altogither, spendin' a few odd days ashore between times. I

THE WESSEL WOB PRETTY WELL CLEAN SWEPT.'

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND. Ill

go a herrin' catchin', and spend the rest of the yeer ashore a farm-labourin'. The
fisherman's life, 'bor, is a hard 'un, and it ain't the weak 'uns as kin stand it; them
as kin doan't look any the wuss, but a sight the better arter leavin' the plough-tail
awhile, and on the suinmat better livin' — for the briny piles up yer appetite as well
— grow fat and kedgey (sprightly).

£ I wor a-sayin' it blowed. Wai, the wind wor fair, an' things looked promisin'
when the old tug Gleaner chucked off the tow-rope of the Sea-mew, and we stood
out t' sea. We was makin' for the fishin' grounds some miles tu the Nor'east'ard.
The sun went down in a ugly sky, but we didn't think as how things 'ud change
for the wuss so quickly. We'd hardly got the nets * shot,' and got turned in, when
the wind began to freshen. The skipper didn't like the manner on it, and his
glass went back most cur'ously; he gan the order tu haul 'em in. Now tain'tno
easy job tu haul in a mile an' a quarter of herrin' nets, stowin' the ' bowls ' (floats)
an' sich like, especially when yew're doin' it in a hurry. It wor well we did it
kedgey, for it blowed most awful by the time we'd done it, and got hove-tu under
storm-canvas. Yow'd be surprised how sune the North Sea turns up choppy. We
didn't feel pertikerler unaisy as the good wessel dipped her bows an' then rid over
the towerin' seas. Now she clomb (climbed) the white-fringed mountains, and now
she fell from theer tops intu the yawnin' gulf below. It wor more awful than grand
plungin' along in the black night. Two on us kept watch : the night was fearful long.
Thinks I, a basin o' hot tea 'ud du my innerds good. Half drownded with the spray
as flung itself aboard, and stung an' blinded with the hail, I shouts into my mate's
ear, and tells him so; an' went down. I'd hardly got below when we heerd a
terrific ' row ' on deck ; a sea broke over the wessel enough to bust her in tew.
An' we heerd a shriek. It wror poor Dick Stevens's last cry; in a moment he must
ha' bin carried overboard an' bin drownded. I kin heer that screech now ! Poor
Dick ! he wor a dacent fellow. Eight intu the mainsail the water poured, heavin'
the Sea-meiu down on tu her beam-ends, and snappin' the boom like a piece o' stick.
We thought it wor all up with us now, 'bor. The fore-sheet wor carried away, an'
the sail flapped madly in the wind. Somehow, Grod only knows how, she righted.
But the water had rushed down the hatchway an' half filled her. Did we feel
skeered ? Wai, if I say we didn't, it 'ud be a lie, but we didn't feel like givin' it
up while the wessel hung togither. We should ha' looked a rum crew, if yow'd a
seen us, some half-dressed, hatless an' buteless, jest as we'd turned in. We'd our
work cut out, I kin tell ye. Cuttin' the boom clear for fear it 'ud knock a hole in
us, an' clearin' away the mainsail, we rigged up a jib— an' sune brought her head
tu wind. Some got tu the pumps, and right glad we was tu heer them shout,

118 NOVEMBEU IN BROADLAND,

1 There she sucks ! ' for how cud she face the heavy seas with her hold more'an half
full o' water?

1 Tired and jaded, some on us went below agin, steadyin' ourselves as best we
could as the wessel plunged an' lurched — some on us prayin' tu Him whose only
Son settled the gale on the Sea o' Gralilee, an' axin' Him tu bless the wives and
little 'uns as was worryin' at home for dad a-tossin' on the ocean.' (The hard horny
hand brushes away a tear from the good fellow's weather-beaten cheek).

' A awful crash on deck agin made us hurry up the companion-way, an' a terri-
ble sight met our eyes. Many a ton o' water had struck us. The wessel wor pretty
well clean swept, boat an' everything gone barrin' the mast an' the rag of a sail ;
and some o' the bulwarks for'ard was knocked clean away. Well for old Billy Har-
den as he'd lashed hisself tu the tiller, or he'd a-gone with 'em. As it wor, he'd
broke a rib or tew, an' we had tu carry 'im below. I took the tiller, prayin' Grod
tu help me tu du it, while some hurried tu set another jibsail. We kept burnin'
flares, but law ! who cud help us ? iveryone else had enough tu du tu look after
theerselves.

' An' then, good Hivins ! a wuss crash follered ! We'd been run intu by another
craft as wor in wuss plight 'an ourselves. It wor the affair of a moment, when a
young feller, Grod only knows how he managed it, jumped clean off her intu ours.
Afore we cud git on our feet agin — for we was all knocked down by the collision—
we lost sight o' her. She must ha' sank directly. The poor chap said as she wor
the Persewerance, trawler, waterlogged, and in a sinkin' state, all hands had bin
swept overboard except him, and the mate who'd steered for us. Poor fellar ! the
mate had gone down with her. We wor now in wusser state than iver: for we'd a
big hole stove in the bows as let in any amount o' water, and it wor only by keep-
in' the pumps agoin' we floated. Fortunately the storm lulled a bit, and we ran-
afore the wind till we sighted Caister. Burnin' flares agin, we sune had the life-
boat arter us, and them brave Caister men, Grod bless 'em ! took us off, puttin' as
many o' theer own men aboard as cud be spared, and standin' by her, reachin' Yar-
m'uth harbour with us — with the wust o' the gale over, and the daylight a-breaking
east'ard. Yow know now what mischief wor done, and how many a brave feller
niver sailed intu port agin.'

By the time our friend's yarn is ended, we have drawn up at the Broadland
Station. And as our road lies in the selfsame direction, we continue to chat in a
friendly sort of way until we reach his cottage, standing in a well-kept little garden.
Evidently he had been expected home, for a trio of merry youngsters, flinging

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

119

wide open the somewhat rickety gate, ran to meet him, clustering round him as
only loving children would, and smothering his bronzed face with kisses.

1 Dad's home!' brings out the good man's wife, who meets and welcomes him
as one of the ' wives and mithers maist despairin' ' only could.

LIFEBOAT TRYING TO APPROACH THE WRECK.

What a marked difference there is in the outlook on the Broads to-day ! The
yachtsman has entirely deserted them, and but for one or two boats containing
couples of enthusiastic pike-fishers, we should have the solitudes to ourselves. It

120 NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

is cold work at its best, sitting or standing hour after hour, throwing your live
bait into likely spots where Esox lucius may be lurking. One need possess an
abnormally strong constitution, and will beside, to follow it up successfully. One
angler yonder has a big fellow in hand. How the maddened creature flurries and
dashes in his terror. Eagerness and many another emotion are indexed on that
flushed face as the fisherman gives and takes, hopes that he may prove victorious
in the struggle, fears that the big fish will have his own way in the end, and that
look of triumph, as he adroitly gaffs the tired-out monster, is the most marked
feature of them all. And it is with justifiable pride he contemplates his huge
quarry now lying at his feet, and blesses the stout, stubborn tackle, and his right
'good luck,' which proved more than a match for the shark of our Broadland
waters.

A slight breeze ruffles the face of the cold-looking waters, and rustles through
the rush and reedy broad-margins, fluttering the dry leaves and rattling the equally
dry stems into strange rustling music. The reeds have not so much altered in
general appearance yet as in colour. A few of the lanceolate leaves have dropped,
and the feathery head-tufts have assumed the woolliness that tells of a full age
and a speedy dissolution. On yonder tuft a couple of small brown birds are busily
feeding. The juvenile molluscs, which, in the sunny days crawled up their stems
for a short siesta, have gone below, and the handsome bearded tits, for such are
they, must perforce be thankful for a vegetarian dietary, and so they are taking
their fill of reed-seeds. They are merry creatures — lively and musical even in
winter, making the reed-bed ring with their clear, flute-like ping, ping. Unfor-
tunately for the reed pheasant, as the Norfolkese call him, the collector is always
eager for a specimen of this indigenous bird of Broadland, who but for persecu-
tion and slaughter, would remain with us all the year round. If our fenmen should
exterminate the native race, it will become lost to us, for we have no migrants of-
this species putting in an appearance in winter. The time is gone for fifties to
be seen together here.

What a host of birds we miss to-day ! Not a reed-warbler, swallow, martin,
or whitethroat is seen. The rattling notes of the common wren, hunting in the
alders, and the chinking song of the redbreast have become familiar, and the
harsher cries of the berry-feeding Turdidce — of which the fieldfare and redwing
are the most vociferous representatives, are heard on every side where hedgerows
trend. There are some wildfowl on the Broad; they are apparently napping, for
their heads are snugly tucked under wing. Their small size unmistakeably decides
them to be teal. A crested grebe, disporting and fishing near by, disturbs them;

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND. 121

they rearrange their already tidy plumage, then playfully dodging each other for
a moment, take to wing, and make for some other Broad. The grebes do not appear
so plentiful as they have been: on the approach of frost, when the skaters will
make their advent here, they will have betaken themselves to the tidal estuaries,
where food may yet be had.

What big bird could it be that, disturbed by our oar crackling in among the
dry reeds, now took to wing, and with a sharp harsh cry hurried away ? We recog-
nise in its brown mottled plumage, and long, thick-ruffed neck, that rare East
Anglian outlaw, the common bittern, now, alas ! no longer deserving its distinctive
title, for by the draining of its native reed-swamps and marshes, to which it resorted
in the breeding-season, they no longer afford it that secrecy and protection which
seemed so necessary to its perfect happiness. Jim Trett, or any of his kindred,
would have been delighted to have made so close an acquaintance with the bird as
we have, and to have levelled their fowling-pieces at it. ' Bottlebump,' as the fen-
men name it, usually feeds at night, and is extremely loth to take to wing by
day, suspiciously eyeing intruders through the labyrinth of reeds, and skulking
off noiselessly at their approach. We have been fortunate in seeing the fellow in
his dull, flagging kind of flight. There are few small creatures that fly, swim, or
crawl that ' bottlebump ' despises when downright hungry. The last eggs of the
bittern found in Broadland were taken in the sixties. We catch, of course, an
occasional glimpse of coots and moorhens, and pay scant heed to them, or the snipe
which frequently pass squeaking overhead. Some tufted ducks, a couple of inter-
esting shovellers, and a redthroated diver, seeking a change diet of young roach,
severally engage our attention.

We push the boat up into a little sluice, at the end of which a kind of dam
has been banked up. A rather large ditch on the other side is kept within bounds
by a quaint, skeleton-like drainage pump-mill that throws its superfluous water
into the Broad. We step ashore on the boggy soil, and scramble up to take a
closer inspection of the curious structure. Its machinery is simple: the mill- sails
when at work whirl round as the winds play on them. By a simple crank adjust-
ment the ' box ' goes up and down, now fast, now slow, as the rod is affected by the
movement of the sails. They are revolving but slowly now, and for want of oil
strange rasping and screeching noises emanate from the machinery. In the water
below it the aquatic plants reflect their broken and dishevelled remnants; the
sedges are crumpled and drooping, not a little red or blue dot of a wild flower is
there to relieve the dull monotony of coloration — everything is brown and sere;
the only bright colours are the yellow willow-leaves floating upon the surface,

Q

122 NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

The slight breeze gradually dies away ; the mill-sails cease revolving. Stepping
into the boat again lunch is brought to daylight, and we sit down awhile to enjoy
it. Quietude has reassured whatever creatures may have skulked into safe hiding
at our approach. How unobservedly they vanish ! A dark brown bird, wonderfully
like the dead herbage that it skulks amongst, glides into notice. But for its move-
ments we had not discerned it. It is q, water-rail. Its sneaking habits are its safe-
guard. And what fuss or ostentation is necessary when life's duties and necessi-
ties simply consist of capturing the snails, slugs, worms, and aquatic plants on
which it feeds ? Its summer cry is a very odd croaking, which the natives here
call ' sharming.'

A crackling in the reeds attracts our attention on the right. A huge animal,
that we at once know to be an otter, forces his way through the reedy phalanx
and is about to discuss the good qualities of a fine tench upon the very 'rond' we
have just stepped off. His quick black eyes have caught our slightest movement,
and like a stone he drops into the water. We secure that tench, for it's as good
for man as otter, and the fellow can procure another far easier than we can. This
savours of appropriativeness. Poor fellow! it's a sorry life he leads at the best, for
every man's hand is against him. Nobody has a word to say in his favour; the
very fish he devours are grudged him, as if he were to be blamed for taking the
paltry fish for his living. Why not rather blame those who, for the sake of slaugh-
ter only, haul out hundred-weights to lie and rot upon the Broadside? However,
while the interminable reed-bed exists, so long will the otter, in spite of persecu-
tion, at least hold his own.

Who can that be standing by the pump-mill, with an eel-pick in his hand,
and beckoning us ? At first we fail to recognise him, but his voice is unmis-
takeable — it's none other than Jim Trett, the fenman. We row back again ; he
has been eel-picking, and his inverted bucket, with a bottom where the top is
usually located, with his pick, and his old fowling-peice, with his worthy self are
soon aboard with us. We have divined his wish to row back home with us, and
so to save his old legs some mile or two's tramping. He has flung a brace of wild
ducks and a woodcock in before him. But why this alteration in his physiognomy ?

' Wai, 'bor, as yow seem cur'ous about it, I may as well tell yer the manein5
of it all. Last Tewsday, no, 'bor, let me be right on it — it wor the Monday, I went
out with my old 8-bore, thinkin' tu git a clip at a bunch of grey lag-geese as wor
scofnV (eating) the young wheat in a field up hinder (yonder) tu theer hart's con-
tent. * Now, old woman,5 1 says, afore laving the house, ( yow'll have summat worth

NOVEMBER IN SROADLAND. 123

the bakin' for dinner tu-morrer, or my name ain't what it are.' Says she, < Doan't
yow tell (count) yer chickens afore yer hatch 'em.' Tha's whare I bate yer, I says,
'cos they're geese an' not chickens at all !

'Howsomdever, I goes arter 'em, and by dint of crawlin' along aholl (dry ditch)
among nettles an' brambles, wadin', through sluss (mire), and what not, cum up
within aisy gun-shot. l Now, Peggy,' says I, ' du yer duty ! ' and I claps her to my
shoulder an' pulls the trigger. Only a click she made — I hadn't put a patch (cap)
on. And if yow b'lieve me, I fumbled in ivery pocket an' cuddn't find one. The
geese hams up theer heads a-wonderin', but seein' nought to be skeered on went
on feedin'. I cud ha' hulled (thrown) Peggy in the holl. Howsomever, thinks I,
I ha' got a match; here goes. So puttin' rny hand jest under the trigger-guard tu
steady her, I poured a charge of powder over the nipple so as not tu miss goin' ofi
if possible. Click ! went the match, up jumped the flock, or tried tu. As they
bunched up, Peggy blazed intu 'em, settlin' how many I didn't know, for the powder
as wor on the gun an' spilled in my hand, bust up intu my silly old face, burnin'
off ivery hair as wor on it an' fairly blindin' me. But I got my bards — four on 'em,
as sun as I cum anyway round at all. Ane ain't I a lovely critter jest now ? My
old woman wor finely skeered. I hope I shall get over the * mute ' (moult) by
springtime.'

As we row across the Broad, a dense fog, which we have been anticipating,
settles over everywhere, so that to steer homewards without mishap we skirt the
reed-bed, making a detour much longer than necessary, but, as in walking in a fog,
so one may row and row and find oneself an hour hence at the very place started
from. Now and again a gull looms up in the thickness, appearing much larger
than he really is ; like a grebe or two that we make closer acquaintance with than
usual, he shuns our society as soon as he recognises us. As the fog seems likely
to last some time, we quit the Broad and walk homewards with our discursive friend,
who has much to tell us. This afternoon he is expected at Farmer Hobbs's with
his ferrets ; rats have become more plentiful than welcome. One curious incident
happens near the landing-stage. A moorhen paddling round in search of food has
attracted the hungry eyes of a big pike. A splash and a whirl ! and the fish's ugly
head appears above water, but a moment too late, for the bird has taken to wing
in the very nick of time.

On our way towards the village we pass a trio of farm-hands watering their
horses at the horsepond. They have been at the plough. We cannot help noticing

124

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

the contrast in the gait of Hodge, whose life is entirely spent ashore. Long used
to walking over ploughed and soft land, he takes slow and lengthy lopes (strides),
with his shoulders forward and his awkward arms swinging in pendulum motion at

A DRAINAGE PUMP.

his side. His billycock hat, canvas slop, and fustian breeks, tied with pieces of
string below the knees, complete his orthodox attire. We venture to ask one
brawny fellow ' why these knee-cords ? '

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND. 125

1 'Bor,' says he, l yow foller the plough, or work on the land where wet grass an'
rubbidge sod (soak) yer trowsers below, jest yow stoop without 'em being tied to,
and yow'd bust off ivery button yow'd on 'em. It gi'e yer freedom o' movement,
'bor, and law ! we doan't fale dressed without 'em.'

The fisher-broad man takes shorter strides, rolls in his walk, turns out his
elbows, and somewhat reverses his hands. His well-filled guernsey, and heavy,
but less ungainly boots, with the usual billycock, completes his undress uniform.
The barber and he are on friendly terms, for a moustache he resolutely refuses to
wear. He becomes altogether smarter in appearance, manners, and lingo, than
droning, vegetating Hodge. But those brawny, rotund shoulders and that portly
figure mark the fisherman indelibly — not that all grow fat.

Having accepted an invitation to * Hev a cup o' tea ' in our fisher friend's
house, we drop in on our homeward way to the village station betimes, finding the
good man playing all sorts of capers with the youngsters, who at times threaten
to ' swamp ' him, as he puts it. The appearance of strangers curbs their rough
play somewhat, and without being rude exactly, and a long way from being impu-
dent, they stare at us as we enter. And they do stare, to be sure, these Broadland
children, although the novelty of l yachtin' and other folk a gadwaddickin' (trip-
ping) on the Broads is wearing off.

There is a savoury smell of bloaters — not those oak-billet smoked delicacies
from the fish-house, but fresh herrings — or rather the least bit salted, that have
hung a day or so in the air to dry and season. Grilled over a clear wood fire, they
are exceedingly appetising: and we are not long in ' falling to.'

The home-made bread is in keeping with the herrings, which we disintegrate
with our fingers ; the fastidious spoil the flavour by using knife and fork. l Hunches '
of bread disappear as if by magic all round — the youngsters as well as we have
prodigious appetites. Seven herrings disappear from between Billy Tungate, our
host's big brown fingers ; he, too, has an appetite. The tea is black by name and
appearance; Tungate's < Missus' has been broken into ' bilin' it in the old kettle,
and emptyin' the leaves only when theer's no rume to put more in.' Then when
full, as the fisher-folk do at sea, she empties it, so he tells us, and makes a fresh
start from the kettle bottom.

One Broadland cottage is much like another both inside and out. There is

126 NOVEMBER IN SROADLAND.

the same old-time red-brick structure, tinged with the greens and yellows of age.
The same honeysuckle or roses trained over the small-paned window, and the
martin's nest above the doorway. A tiny flower-garden runs before it to the pal-
ings, with a hedge of holly or privet growing parallel. The walls inside are white-
washed, and a regiment of little cheap prints and family photographs are hung in
anything but a methodical way upon them. They have been tacked on as they
turned up. The brick floor is sanded, the fire-place bright with lead and elbow
grease. Everything is clean as wax, from the youngsters' ruddy faces, fresh-washed
for ( dad ' to kiss them, to the baby's little print dress, for ' Dad's home, yew know ! '

The homely repast having come to an end, friend Tungate gets down his long
clay pipe, draws from unknown t fob '-depths his sealskin pouch of strong cheap
shag, and tempts us to share its contents. The youngsters have each had their
hug and kiss, and their mother trots them off to bed — but not to slumber yet, for
they have some arrears of fun to get over before they fall asleep, when not a 'deen'
(sound) will be heard, not even a ' winnock ' (cry) from the baby. Our good man
grows chatty as the smoke curls upwards. We may not place on record scarcely
one fraction of his yarn, which is of things fishy and of the sea.

* That in-shorin' of the herrin's is a wonderful thing, 'bor,' so reg'lar, so enor-
mous— and in course, so welcome. Some say they cum tu spawn ; p'raps they du,
but I hev a notion as they cum on the hunt for food as well. What du herrin's eat?
Wai, they eat wery small shrimps — 'possum shrimps — I heerd a gent once call 'em,
small sea-wermin, and even the spawn an' young of theer own sort. It's a rare
God-send — theer cumin'. We fishin' chaps muster up some thousands strong an'
man some four or five hundred boats. A fishin' boat, all found, without her nets,
costs sufrm' over a thousand pounds, and her nets nearly 'arf as much, So it manes
some thousands o' pounds a-rollin', doan't it ?

* Yow know, at least I s'pose yer du, that a herrin' net's like a wall of meshes,
floated a-top with corks, kept straight down with its own weight. A single boat
drifts out some hundred an' fifty nets, each thirty yards long, 'leven yards deep —
some mile an' a 'arf that makes it. We keep an eye on the gulls an' wil-ducks
(guillemots) an' the gants (gannets); where they fish we know theer's suflfin'.
Shutin' (shooting) our nets at nightfall we hauls them airly in the mornin'. It's a
rare sight tu see us haulin' in thousands of silv'ry critters as hev l gilled ' theer-
selves a-shovin' tu get clear o' the nets. The more they shove, in course the tighter
they get, an' drown theerselves, they du, tu be sure. We got over twenty last a
couple o' nights ago, that's, lemme see, how many ? A last is ten thousand; reckin'

NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

127

thirty-tew over for every hundred, that's thirteen thousand tew hundred. I reck-
ened it up this mornin' at tew hundred an' sixty-four thousand ! they fetched £9
a last; that warn't a bad bit of work. Grales an' bad luck play the mischief up
with us sometimes.

' We git paid in proportion to our takes, yer know, So much on the last, or

JIM TRETT'S FERRETS.

otherwise by the ' dole ' (share). Theer's 'leven on us from skipper to boy. A good
season ; and some may have tu take £40 or £50 for their share, which ain't bad,
seein' as we fish from the end of July tu Christmas. Bad luck it is as spiles us
when we * make up ' in debt ! It's a lottery, 'bor, it are.

* Yew've seen the Fish wharf, ain't yew, when the fishin's in full swing ? Ain't
it a sight tu see the fleet of boats put in an' out, and the full herrin' swills (baskets)

128 NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND.

spread a hull (whole) mile along the quayside ? An' ain't we a rough, unkempt
lot in our sou's an' ileys (oilskins), and faces unwashed for a week at a time? Jist
fancy a little herrin' rulin' the lives of thousands ! — merchants, fishermen, tellers
(counters), auctioneers, cupers (coopers), blacksmiths, sailmakers, ship carpenters,
and a hundred other sort of folks, and thousands of 'em all gettin' more or less
benefited by one little fish — but, in course, the millions of 'em du it.

' Yew've bin in a fish-house, I s'pose ? That's a rum sight seein' the carters
fetchin' the fish; the hands a saltin', washin', spittin' (running them on spits or
sticks), hangin', kipperin', packin', labelling an' what not, ain't it ? A few hours
hangin' in the smoke-rume makes a herrin' intu a Yarmith blowter ; an' as many
weeks as hours make ham-cured reds of 'em. And for a breakfast dainty give me
one on 'em, though for a matter of that, didn't they make me dry, I cud manage
half-a-dozen. Ha! Ha!—'

Much that relates to the habits and whims of the herrings, their varieties,
the manoeuvres of the fishermen to outwit them, much of the birds and marine
monsters that prey upon them, of humorous and pathetic incidents that brighten
and sadden the fisherman's life, is told us, until the striking of the old Dutch clock
in the corner warns us that it is time to be off if we would catch our train.

A tap at the window brings us out quickly. It is none other than our old
friend Trett, who is off to the station with a trunk of eels.

<I thowt as yow'd be here, 'bor, an' as I've borrered Caleb Hewitt's pony — an'
heer's rume for yer, wal, I doan't see as how yow'll need tu walk.' .

We bid Tungate good-night. Trett puts the grey pony into an easy trot,
and away we go.

'Look here, 'bor,' says he, 'yow've allers bin good tu me an' the missus — du
take this 'ere for yer dinner tu-morrer. It'll plaase yer missus, and I know it will
yow. I kilt a couple this mornin' down in the seven-acre midder (meadow).'

We dine at home next day on a fine fat bean-goose, and wish, dear reader,
you could have dropped in upon us and have had a taste of its sweet juicy flesh.

A WINTER SUNSET.

DECEMBER IN BROADLAND.

* Oh winter ! ruler of th' inverted year,
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filler! —

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.'

—Thomson.

ECEMBER, on the whole, is not a pleasant month. It is generally
ushered in with clouds and vapours; and stormy days are not infre-
quent. Now and again towards its close ' the hoar frost is scattered
like ashes,' or a mantle of snow covers the landscape with whiteness.
On Broadland there is an apparent cessation from outdoor labour;
the farmer has finished ploughing, but the feeding and housing of his
cattle demand attention; whilst Hodge « jobs about,' as he expresses it, for there
is corn to be thrashed in the open weather, and grain to be carted. He will tell

B

130 DECEMBER IN BROADLAND.

you that 'it 'oant du, 'bor, tu fowld yer arms, an' not tu keep a duin' summat —
an' maaster's wery good that way, in findin' jobs for tu du.'

Our old fenman-friend finds scant idle time, except when the waters are hard
'friz'; reed-cutting commences now; there's hedging and ditching to do, whilst
up at the warren he finds it not unprofitable to help the warrener net rabbits for
an adjacent market-town ; and for this latter congenial adjunct his brace of ferrets
comes in exceeding handy. He finds them useful, too, in clearing the farmers'
premises of rats; not that he altogether exterminates them, nor would he wish to
if he could, for ' winter'll cum round agin sum day, yer know, an' what's the ferrets
for?' This admission Jem Trett would not venture to make to any but a trusty
friend.

It is a dull, murky day, with the promise of a change — which cannot be for
a much worse — that finds us turning our backs upon the quiet Broadland station.
We saw little to interest us coming along. A number of white gulls, on most
friendly terms with their opposites in colour, the rooks, were foraging on a fresh-
ploughed field, flocks of sober-tinted larks rose up on either side as we startled
them into hurried flight. We might, perhaps, have observed more had we not
become so absorbed in a gossip carried on by some substantial-looking country-
wives who have been to town to purchase their Christmas groceries. It is simply
astonishing how everyone knows everybody else's business in these quiet villages —
we are treated to a sample of it ; amongst other analyses, their intermarriages
and family relationships are worked out in a genealogy as amusing as it is ex-
haustive.

None too pleasant is our walk Broadwards; the roads are veritable 'sloughs
of despond,' and the unpleasant drizzle which has evolved from the thickening
vapours, driven by the wind, filters through the leafless hedges as we plod along.
We speedily overtake a miserable object, shambling along ahead of us, and forc-
ing our conversation upon him, bit by bit draw from him the story of a misspent
life and present destitution. He ' once ran well,' but the strong drink hindered
him. It is the old story — a goodly start, pleasant prospects, success, temptation,
yielding, gambling passions aroused, excessive indulgence, theft, exposure: then
in quick succession followed hopelessness, carelessness, want, and misery. Could
it be possible that the unhappy, rag-draped specimen of humanity rubbing shoul-
ders against our own, glad of, but unprofiting by a word of sympathy, was once in
affluent circumstances, and one whom the honourable at one time esteemed as one
of them? We study his bleared physiognomy; thereon yet linger traces of refine-
ment and education. We query as to his wandering in such an outlandish country.

132 DECEMBER IN BROADLAND.

' Sir,' replies he, ' what matters it to wretched Cain whither he wanders, so long as
no one knows him, so long as a crust is to be had for the asking, and a public-
house is looming in the distance ? ' Alas ! for poor humanity.

It is not sufficiently tempting to-day for us to venture out upon the open
Broad. The rain has ceased, and a streak of blue intervenes between the retreat-
ing rain-cloud and a darker one which follows. The wind still blusters, but from
the way the tell-tale on yonder mill-cap whirls round, and strange, harsh, grating
sounds proceed from part of the unoiled machinery, we notice it is veering a point
or two more northward. A pelting hailstorm bursts upon us. How keen the air
is becoming ! Sleet begins to mix with the lessening hailstones, and there is the
promise of snow in those mountainous clouds looming up from the horizon. The
sun. breaks out awhile, and tinges the whole scene with a warm ruddy hue, which
is superseded by a colder yellow.

From a little brick Broadland bridge we are content to take our survey of the
Broads. Here in their leisure moments in the finer days, and on Sundays between
church times, the natives delight to ' mardle,' resting their chins upon their folded
arms on its parapets ; and here they love to ruminate. We are not one whit better
than they. Before us lies a Broad with a white-edged ripple dancing upon its
surface as the wind beats down it, flinging the froth in amongst the stems of the
bending reeds. The breeze for a moment lulls, and the yellow-brown reeds and
rushes duplicate themselves in the depths. Decaying leaves and broken stems
sprinkle the surface amongst them; the debris of the waterlilies, the mare's-tail,
and many another broad-plant are rotting to form fresh soil below.

All around and about the Broad signs of the year's decadence are apparent.
The old willow's slender twigs are bare, and the beeches' more distorted branches
are as naked. Lichens are crowding the tree-trunks; only the fir-trees, in which
the wood-pigeons now resort at eventide, bear the slightest resemblance to their
summertime glories. We miss the songs of the woodland birds. The crek-rek-
rek of the moorhen is only heard at intervals, the scolding of the crested grebes we
listen for in vain. Most of them have gone to the milder southern counties, a few
may be found in winter in our open estuaries; to-day but one or two have ven-
tured to show themselves here. They will be ready to visit salt-water when the
Broad becomes clothed with an icy mantle. We do not discern even a pike-fisher
to-day. The only individual in keeping with our surroundings is a fenman cut-
ting reeds. We bring our glasses to bear upon him. A plank pushed over the
bows of his flat reed-boat rests upon it and the stumps of those reeds already cut ;

DECEMBER IN SROADLAND. 133

they easily support his weight. The process is simple, yet requires some judg-
ment. Holding a bunch in his ' dannocked ' (gloved) left hand, he makes a slightly
upward sweep with his sickle, cutting the reed-stems as near the surface of the
water as possible. An axiom of the Broadman says, l An inch o' reed below water's
wuth tew above it.' That from under water, when dry, becomes harder and more
durable than that which grew above. He lays them as cut athwart the boat until
they form a little stack, then 4 quants ' with a shoving pole to the staith, where
he ties them up in bundles some six feet in circumference, and sells them by the
fathom. When reeds were more in demand than now, a reed-bed formed a profit-
able adjunct to the owner's property and the fenman's earnings. Pains used to be
taken in propagating them; detatched pieces of a reed-bed were moored in likely
places, and a new growth speedily began. Now they encroach upon the Broads
all too fast, extending their area year by year.

The bridge we stand on spans a narrow run of water, and with the roadway
trending on either side, separates these two particular Broads ; the runlet unites
them. Turning round we take a survey of the other. There is a sameness in the
outlook ; only a grey church-steeple breaks the distant line of trees, and a tiny
red flag marks the mooring-place of a trading wherry. A swampy rond, with a
narrow footpath insinuating itself into the labyrinth of alders, tempts us to follow
its windings. The bog-moss is growing rankly, all else we tread on is dead and
decaying. Water squeezes upwards at our every footstep, and brambles catch
our sleeves with their sturdy thorns. The swamp is not untenanted. A snipe, and
now another, take to zig-zag flight as we approach their hiding-places, and a long-
billed bird, which we recognise at once as a woodcock, springs from under our
very feet, flies wildly and in an indefinite manner overhead, and drops again as
suddenly as he appeared.

Turning abruptly to follow a less-used pathway, we come suddenly upon a
sight which fills us with interest and with sadness. Depending from a low tree-
branch by pieces of twine are the numerous victims of a gamekeeper's vengeance.
Stoats and weasels form the greater number. We wonder not so much at this
magpie — condemned to death with some degree of fairness, perhaps, for the mis-
chief he was believed guilty of — that of egg-stealing — but why this innocent
barn-owl ? We reckon up this gamekeeper as an ignorant, unread, and unthink-
ing fellow. Some of the stoats are mere skins and skeletons, for the blowfly was
on his rambles when they were slaughtered, and the shot-holes thickly perforating
their necks and shoulders are a guarantee of the accuracy of the keeper's aim.
Some siskins are dodging about on an alder-stem, but take to flight on the approach

134

DECEMBER IN BROADLAND.

of a green woodpecker, whose
anticipations of an abundant
meal, hiding behind the de-
caying bark upon a willow-
bole just beneath it, are not
far out. We remain motion-
less; as yet the fine bird
with his yellow-green coat
and crimson cap has not es-
pied us. At a snail's pace
we bring the glasses to our
eyes. How the fellow is
chipping the bark to splin-
ters ! Now he has exposed

THE GAMEKEEPER AND
HIS MUSEUM.

the trunk to view. It is a grand
time he is having amongst the
' armadilloes' that, so unexpected-
ly brought to light, are too stupe-
fied to seek fresh shelter.

|^ We reach the small red drain-

age-pump. Its sails are not re-
volving. A strange noise, sound-
ing very like the rushing of wind
through the pump-sails we in-
stinctively imagine as such, but
an alarm cry, as of a plover, makes
us as suddenly look up. It was
not the wind, but the rustle of a hundred pairs of
wings, and that cry was the wail of a golden plo-
ver. They are migrating. We observe no other

DECEMBER IN BROADLAND. 135

birds except a dabchick disporting himself under an overhanging bank.
The wind suddenly springs up and flings in airy circles the descending snow-
flakes. Ere we reach the village, the canopy of blackness which has been shutting
out the blue above us is pouring forth its accumulation of snow. It eddies and
twirls around us in the blast which whisks up the flakes already fallen, and drifts
them under the hedgerows. The first that fell have melted, but the myriads
following lie one upon the other, and remain until all Nature is covered with a
pall of dazzling whiteness. The bell in the village steeple is tolling ominously.
Surely Death has not been visiting Broadland ? Alas ! he has, and ' the fair have
fallen.' Dong-dong! at short intervals reverberates from the ivy-clad steeple as
the old sexton, at measured periods, tolls the passing-bell. He has left his spade
resting against a moss-grown headstone that marks the last resting-place where
one of ' the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleeps.' Yawning beside this is a freshly-
dug grave into which the spotless snow is gently falling, as if to carpet the bare
earth with unsullied purity. There is a stir in the village. Apron-clad matrons
are quietly hurrying to see the last of a little maiden whose burial takes place to-
day. Some have donned all the black in their possession as a mark of respect for
the departed. They are making for the church-yard. In the distance a solemn
procession is wending its way hither also. An old white pony is drawing its
precious burden upon a cart. Over the coffin a velvet pall is spread. Snowflakes
are falling lightly on it. Immediately behind follow the classmates of the dead
maiden, each with a snowdrop and a sprig of southernwood in her hand, to throw
directly upon the little coffin. Then follow the bereaved parents and their chil-
dren, and the friends of the family — of whom muster a goodly number, for half
the village has turned out to pay homage to the little one gone to the Land where
there is no winter.

Scarce a word is spoken; and even then it is in subdued whispers. The
parson meets them at the church door with due solemnity ; and the procession
files in slowly under the shelter of the old thatched roof, two or three old men,
bent with age, and leaning upon their sturdy staves, bringing up the rear. Even
they have a tiny slip of crape tied round the left arm.

The church service over, the coffin is borne out, and lowered into the open
grave. There is a strange feeling of awe displayed upon every feature as the soil
drops with a thud upon the coffin-lid, and the quivering lips of the white-headed
parson pronounce the well-known sentence, 'Earth to earth.' Sobs are heard from
relatives, and sturdy fellows, holding their broad-brimmed hats in one hand, brush

136 DECEMBER IN SROADLAND.

away a tear with the other brawny biceps. Now a sweet song is trilled by child-
ren's voices as they stand around the resting place of their lost companion —

' Brief life is here our portion,

Brief sorrow, short-lived care ;
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life, is there.'

By the time the song is ended, there is not a dry eye in the company around.
Even rough * Nixey ' Lutkins the poacher, and his sworn enemy, the gamekeeper,
drawn by one bond of sympathy, are now side by side looking over the low wall,
and are in tears. For the time being old feuds are forgotten in the general
sorrow. Poor little Nellie Groldstone was the only being who ever had a kind word
for Nixey. Maybe she 'being dead, yet speaketh' to him. Who knows but that
even now he may be making up his mind to profit by the lesson of her spotless
life? The service finished and the last look taken, the congregation slowly dis-
perses. And the sun peering out from behind the snow-cloud that has passed
over, lights up the landscape, and makes the countryside beautiful — a fitting
emblem of the brightness of a better world, after a journey through the valley
of the shadow of death.

Winter now reigns supreme. Christmas, the jolliest season of all the year,
is close upon us. The town is unusually busy, for everyone is making great
preparations to welcome it. Even the hard-worked counterman puts up with its
inconveniences, with rest and pleasure in prospect. There is an unusual bustle at
the Broadland station as we step out of our carriage, and worm our way through
a maze of hampers and baskets of good cheer. The feet of fowls and the tails
of game peep out in all directions. Is it not strange that much of our pleasure
should depend on the death of the humbler creatures ?

Merrily ring the bells in the village steeple. Ding-dong-ding! It is a sorry
peal, but the best the triplet of bells can do. Strong arms pull the ropes, and
the sound of their clanging is heard afar. The drowsy bats among the rafters
no doubt draw their heads from under their membranous wings, and wonder at
their strange awakening; and the owls above them hiss, and crouch at the farthest
corner of their location. Ding-dong-ding ! let everyone be glad, for ' Unto us a
Child is born, unto us a Son is given,' so runs the roughly-painted scrollwork some
village artist has proudly tacked around the old oaken pulpit. There are lights

jui TRETT'S ' £

FERRET AT WORK. /

twinkling in the church windows.
The parson and his helpers are ma-
king the church bright with ever-
greens, befitting symbols of that
Name which endures through the
generations.

It is not to the church we
wend our way; we are off to a sup-
per at Farmer Kerrison's. A son
is 'hoarn from th' army, one of his
married gals is down from Lunnen
with her husband, and it's a right
merry time he intends a-havin'. '
And it is a * right merry' party we
find sitting down in the spacious
kitchen to a table creaking beneath
the weight of the good things of
this life. Kerrison welcomes us
heartily, and his company smile
us a friendly greeting, he himself
saying us a complimentary <So
you've come, 'bor! ' We could say
much about the coquetries and
gallantries of the younger farm
hands, and the curious bits of

138 DECEMBER IN BROADLAND.

6 broad Norfolk ' dispensed by the older ones, but space forbids. When grace
is said we * fall to ' with a gusto that bespeaks the quality of the spread and
the appetites that will speedily devastate it. First come Norfolk Dumplings.
We give them capitals, for they are unique. They are the simplest of puddings,
compounded of flour, water, yeast, and a dash of salt, ' biled twenty minnets —
nayther more nor less.' Only Norfolk matrons can make the legitimate article —
to see them knead, and roll into shape between their hands, nip off or add a pinch
of dough is a sight that impresses you. But to have them served up < dun tu a
nicety,' and swimming in gravy, is an episode in your existence. Our friends stow
away one apiece, some of them more, and then fall to a loin of pork that would
make a bilious man stand aghast. With it disappear turnips and potatoes. Next
follows * toad-in-the-hole '—pork sausages baked in batter. This fails to upset or
satisfy. Then comes pork and apple-pie, with a crust as thick as a policeman's
boot-sole; then pumpkin and apple-pie, and those who wish it may have their
turn at rice-pudding and giant custards. Lastly comes a monster plum-pudding,
of which, strange to say, but sorry fragments afterwards find themselves upon the
kitchen table. All this time there has been much uncorking of non-intoxicants,
and the ale-barrel has been running itself dry as well.

We bid the party Good-night ! ere the evening's fun commences, which
finishes with a merry dance and light refreshments. Strolling along in the cold
crisp air we wander Broadwards for the last time in the old year. The frost-dust
sparkles in the moonlight. A slight rime has touched the tree-branches and the
hedges with whiteness. The Broad is frozen over. We hear no sounds but the
crackling of the ice, and the occasional cry of some awakened bird. Once we
notice the murmur of starlings roosting in the reed-bed ; then all is quiet again.
The report of a gun rings through the clear night air. It is a suspicious sound^
and we doubt not some poacher is out upon the prowl. Presently a figure emerges
from a small wood ahead of us, but, as if our presence is simultaneously detected,
it disappears again. Once again, the man as if reassured of our neutrality, steps
out from a nearer thicket, and staring inquisitively at us, recognises us. It is
Nixey Lutkins at his old game again. We had hoped better of him, and we ven-
ture to tell him so.

'Ah! 'bor, what's bred in the bone'll work itself out somewhere,' he replies,
6 a feller can't help his instincts ; why, when I wor only a nipper the sound of a
shot 'ud jest make me all excitement, an' it is only with a gun in my hands that
I am happy now. In spite of all it's browt me, I can't part myself from it. And

DECEMBER IN SROALLAND. 139

why shouldn't I have some fun in life jest as well as the rich 'uns ? They abuse
us for destroyin' a few head o' game — they can kill 'em by the hundred. What
feeds theer bards but the farmer's corn ? — an' he dussn't open his mouth tu say
so! Theer bards! ha! ha! ain't them phaysents an' pa'tridges on one man's
field tu-day, and on another's tu-morrow ? Them as they belong tu, why doan't
they mark 'em ? Cud any on 'em sware tu a bard, and say as sich an' sich a one
wor theer own pertikler property ? If they're theers, says I, why doan't they keep
'em at home? — Wai, I may be wrong, but I like the fun an' excitement: the sight
of a long-tailed 'un asleep on a tree-branch sets me all afire.

1 All right, guv'ner, yow doan't need tu feel unaisy. Trew ! a man's known by
the comp'ny he keeps; butDuke'll see as we shan't be overlooked. (He whistles,
and a scraggy, but faithful lurcher, which has been till now in hiding, glides up to,
and takes its place behind him.) Yow'll keep sentry, oan't yer, Duke ? (The dog
answers by lifting a paw and wagging its tail in a cautious manner.)

' Talk about dawgs — Duke's as knowingsome as most. He never sells hisself
by barkin', he kin trace an' bring in a hare like a Christian; and he never recker-
nise me in comp'ny, an'll even pass me in the street as if we was the biggest
strangers. 'Bor, he can tell mischief a-brewin' afore I can.

( Ah, 'bor, I hev had some rare du's in my time. Let me light my pipe, and
I tell yer of one or tew. I once made a good haul on yin island. It war thiswise,
I know'd as how a lot of * longtails ' was roosting in theer at nights, for I'd seed
'em flyin' over at even-time. They was snug-like ; theer wasn't no stoats, nor rats,
or sich-like to worrit 'em. Law ! it wor tantalisin' tu see 'em whizzin' over the bit
o' water, and turnin' in all serene. One night I watched the keeper off the beat, and
slippin' my old gun where she now is (see, I've got her here — half in each pocket)
I nips down to the Broad. Theer wasn't much mune (moon), but jest enough tu
distinguish this from that. The Broad wor hard friz ; an' snow lay thick. My
fut-marks 'ud tell a tale, so I jest off wi' my butes an' stockin's an' rewerses 'em-
stocks outside, yer know; then I wraps some rushes round 'em. Yow wouldn't ha'
known my tracks from a elliphant's. Theer they wor, snoozin' in the trees. I
pops over a dozen right quick, and off I cum ; I hops ashore, strike off across some
fields, makin' most of my way across tangled places an' aside the holls, and makes
for hoam ; I found old Cubitt's dickey wanderin' in a lane; on him I jumped,
makin' him trot me the remainder of my jarney. Tu bustle him off with a kick
or tew as he'll remember tu his dyin' day, tu hang my bards in the chimbley
(chimney), pop intu bed, and get tu snorin' wor the work of a few rninnets. An'

140

DECEMBER

BROADLAND.

none tu sune nayther, for I'd hardly dun it, afore I heerd the ' slop' (policeman) an'
keepers cum in. In course upstairs they all stumped, where I wor a-snorin' like
a hipperpotamus. Says the bobby, 'This 'ere is a ram du — Nixey's at home an'
fast asleep — it worn't him ! ' ' 'Tis a rummen ! ' says a keeper, ' we doan't need tu
wake 'im ! ' an' once more clappin' the bull's eye on tu me, they hooks it. Howiver

NIXEY LUTKINS.

tu keep from bustin' wi' larfin' I didn't know ; and they hadn't cleered the house-
door afore I busts.

6 < Hallo ! ' says one, ' wha's that ? ' and I suppose he listens. Then he says,
4 1 s'pose it's the cat awailin'.' Jest then the cat du trot downstairs, and that
settles theer opinions. They couldn't prove nothin', but * give a dawg a bad name
an' hang 'im,' so they say !

* The wust o' wrong duin' is that one thing leads tu another. If a feller doan't

DECEMBER IN BROADLAND. 141

lie outright tu hide his tricks, he ha' tu act full many a one tu screen 'em, and he's
so tempted tu act mean as well. I ha' used false whiskers, makin' myself look like
other folk, and once I slipped on a shepherd's coat. I wor traced, but got away;
but poor owd Barney Hewitt got run in cos they know'd his coat ! It wor only my
ownin' up tu the poachin' as saved him a fortnight on the staircase, for they found
a couple of pheasants in the pockets when I dropped it. Mind yer, I never showed
fight, I walue my neck tew well. No ! if I'm copt (taken), I'm copt, if I ain't I get's
away. Tha's logic, ain't it ? Says I, never prop up a rotten beam with a worm-
eaten bit o' timber !

' Once I got away when I wor took. Duke an' I was out one evening on the
old game. We'd got a hare — that wor afore hares wor chalked as wermin. We
heerd footsteps, and with no more ado we draws ourselves intu a heap of rubbidge
— hedge-clippin's, briers, brakes, and sich-like, and covered ourselves serene. That
dawg didn't make a deen (sound). The keepers wor arter us. One on 'em actu-
ally stamped on Duke's fut as he passed by, but the old feller didn't even wince;
I felt hi$ breath cum quick an' sharp agin my face. They passed on. Sendin'
Duke hoam, for I know'd they'd leave no stone upturned tu git me, I hides my old
piece benean a heap of hay (she wor rusty enough when I fetched her agin !) and
makes for the willage pub. They wor theer afore me. In a moment the slop
(who'd bin called in tu help) had the snips (handcuffs) on me, and out I ha' tu go.
They thought they'd got theer bard, but they hadn't. Handcuffed as I wor I
bolted, they dashin' arter me. I cud run then, and for a while outdistanced 'em.
Presently I trips agin a stone, and comes down whallop ! Luck, however, wor on
my side, for one o' the links wor broke. Law ! how I pegged it ! Wai, 'bor, they
lost all traces of me. And by a roundabout way I gits intu a barn unbeknown tu
'em, and hides benean the straw. I'd a knife in my pocket, and by dint of sawin',
by next nunetime had my hands free altogither. I got fearful hungry, but thowt
it best tu hide till nightfall. Then I goes round a mile or so tu my brother's — he
wor a hawker — an' put his brumes an' pails, and dwiles (housecloths) an' sitera in a
box built behind-like. I begs him tu see me hoam. So, arter a feed, he pops me
in hid fust (head first), and puttin' the pony in, off he trots. Law ! that wor a ride
if yer like ; 1 had no ind of bunnies (lumps) on my hid when we got tu the house,
once when the pony draws intu the hoss-pond I jest about stands upon it. I won-
dered what wor up ! Arrived at the house he jerks open the door an' shoots me in
like a bale o' goods. I wor laid up with a low fever for some weeks arter that; and
in the meantime the affair blowed over.'

A BBOADLAND FAVOURITE

DECEMBER IN BROADLAXD. 143

Just now Duke shows signs of uneasiness and his master takes the hint. But
before he leaves us he hurriedly remarks that he really intends to drop the ' bis-
ness — 'bor,' he adds, ' that 'ere little 'un as wor buried 'tother day begged on me
tu du diffrent, and s'help me, sum day I mane tu ; but it's hard tu give up the old
ways. P'raps in the new yeer I'll turn over a new leaf, but I must ha' my Christ-
mas dinner fust. Good-night, sir.'

The fellow as suddenly vanishes as he appeared. We continue our musings
on the Bridge alone. The keeper, for he it is whose oncoming has put the poacher
to flight, accosts us, and makes comment on the beauty of the night. Feelings
of delicacy on his part forbid him interrogating us as to whether we'd heard or
seen anything in his way.

Ding-dong ding again peal forth the village bells, their clear mellow tones
ringing out through the bright quiet night. There is something weird and beauti-
ful in their clanging, yet so strange withal. Now for a while they cease, and the
music of sweet childish voices is borne along upon the breath of the gentle wind,
a welcome as appropriate as it is touching, of the

* Day that we love best in the days of the year,'

bringing to mind the beautiful and never-tiresome story of the nativity of Him
whose praises the angels sang at Bethlehem. And His presence seems so real and
near to us that unconsciously we take off our hat — and the place whereon we stand
seems hallowed ground.

Reader, it is time for us to take leave of each other : can we do better than
part at the manger where the Holy Child lay ? Our Broadland jaunts have come
to an end.

14 DAY USE

RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED

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