bit of a feed, and
something of a washing? And you are right. Take charge, Mr.
Blackfellow-ostler, and while you do your duty let me amuse myself with
my notebook. After all, memory is even-handed. It keeps us in
remembrance of many things we would fain never think of more; but it
performs similar service for others that are pleasant to ponder over.
Out of the saddle bag I have taken a copy of the _Gentleman's
Magazine_, newly arrived by this morning's mail, and while the mare
took her own time up the hills I have been glancing through a "Red
Spinner" article on "Angling in Queensland," with an author's
pardonable desire to see how it comes out in print. That was why I
took to making casts at the leaves with the riding whip. That is why,
halting here for an hour on the crest of a hill, overlooking scrub of
glossy green, bright patches of young maize, and a river shimmering in
the valley, I am noting a few of the best-day memories which the easy
paces of Brownie have allowed me in the saddle.

What a day was that amongst the trout on the Chess! I wrote for
permission to spend one afternoon only upon certain private waters, and
the noble owner by return of post sent me an order for two days. It
was June. The meadows, hedgerows--ay! and even the prosaic railway
embankments--were decked with floral colouring, and at Rickmansworth I
had to linger on the platform to take another look at the foliage
heavily shading the old churchyard, and at the distant woods to the
left. When I came back to quarters, after dark, having fished the
river for a few hours, I began to think I might as well have stopped in
London. The fish would not rise that afternoon, and there was but a
beggarly brace in the basket. Some wretch above had been mowing his
lawn and casting the contents of the machine into the stream at regular
intervals. He got rid of his grass, certainly; but this was no gain to
me, whose hooks perseveringly caught the fragments floating by. At
last the grass pest ceased. The mowing man had left his task at six
o'clock, no doubt, and the soft twilight would soon come on--time dear
to anglers. But the cattle had an innings then. During the most
precious hour they waded into the river--higher up, of course--and a
pretty state of discolour they made of it. In this way the first essay
left me abundance of room to hope for the morrow.

Fresh, sweet, and dewy it was at four o'clock on the next morning. The
keeper h