and the cruelty of taking the fish off the hook!  Uncle allowed no idlers at the river—­all had to manipulate a rod and line.  Indulging in pleasant air-castles, I generally forgot my cork till the rod would be jerked in my hand, when I would pull—­too late! the fish would be gone.  Uncle would lecture me for being a jackdaw, so next time I would glare at the cork unwinkingly, and pull at the first signs of it bobbing—­too soon! the fish would escape again, and I would again be in disgrace.  After a little experience I found it was a good plan to be civil to Frank Hawden when the prospect of fishing hung around, and then he would attend to my line as well as his own, while I read a book which I smuggled with me.  The fish-hole was such a shrub-hidden nook that, though the main road passed within two hundred yards, neither we nor our horses could be seen by the travellers thereon.  I lay on the soft moss and leaves and drank deeply of the beauties of nature.  The soft rush of the river, the scent of the shrubs, the golden sunset, occasionally the musical clatter of hoofs on the road, the gentle noises of the fishers fishing, the plop, plop of a platypus disporting itself mid stream, came to me as sweetest elixir in my ideal, dream-of-a-poet nook among the pink-based, grey-topped, moss-carpeted rocks.

I was a creature of joy in those days.  Life is made up of little things.  It was a small thing to have a little pocket-money to spend on anything that took my fancy—­a very small thing, and yet how much pleasure it gave me.  Though eating is not one of the great aims of my life, yet it was nice to have enough of any delicacy one fancied.  Not that we ever went hungry at home, but when one has nothing to cat in the hot weather but bread and beef it gives them tendency to dream of fruit and cool dainties.  When one thinks of the countless army of one’s fellows who are daily selling their very souls for the barest necessaries of life, I suppose we—­irresponsible beings—­should be thankful to God for allowing us, by scratching and scraping all our lives, to keep a crust in our mouth and a rag on our back.  I am not thankful, I have been guilty of what Pat would term a “digresshion”—­I started about going for the mail at Dogtrap.  Harold Beecham never once missed taking me home on Thursdays, even when his shearing was in full swing and he must have been very busy.  He never once uttered a word of love to me—­not so much as one of the soft nothings in which young people of opposite sexes often deal without any particular significance.  Whether he went to all the bother and waste of time accruing from escorting me home out of gentlemanliness alone, was a mystery to me.  I desired to find out, and resolved to drive instead of ride to Dogtrap one day to see what he would say.

Grannie assented to the project.  Of course I could drive for once if I didn’t feel able to ride, but the horses had been spelling for a long time and were very frisky.  I must take Frank with me or I might get my neck broken.