it was in abundance, and as for apples--well, we fairly revelled in
them.

To my mind a good English apple, fresh picked from the tree, and with the
dew upon its sun-kissed cheeks, cannot be beaten the whole world over.

During a portion of this day we had to face a strong head-wind, which made
the travelling rather hard, and severely taxed the patience and skill of
the steerer. Happening to chaff him once or twice when the wind got the
upper hand and nearly slewed the canoe round, he challenged me to try
my hand and do better. Accepting the challenge, and in the rashness of
youthful confidence, I ventured to wager him that I could take the canoe,
single-handed and empty, up to a certain point and back again, during
which I should, of course, have to turn broadside on to the full force
of the wind.

The outcome of it was that we quickly landed and emptied the canoe of all
impedimenta in case of mishap, and then I started off--not so confidently,
though, I may add--on my uncertain way.

All went well until I attempted to turn, and then the full force of the
wind catching me suddenly, over I went, after a vain attempt to steady the
canoe, souse into the canal. Coming to the surface, I called out (when I
had emptied my mouth of as much canal-water as I could) to Jacky that I
was all right, and then, amid his uproarious mirth, I struck out for shore,
pushing the canoe in front of me.

A brisk rub down and a change of flannels (we were in a secluded spot,
fortunately) soon mended matters, and by the time Jacky had emptied the
canoe of water and stowed away our belongings, I was ready to start again,
thoroughly cured for the time being of over-confidence in my canoeing
powers.

After a stiff paddle through charming woodland scenery, and passing
_en route_ Bedworth, the most active part of the Warwickshire coal-fields,
we reached Nuneaton, where we went ashore and engaged a room for the night
under the hospitable roof of the White Horse.

A stroll around Nuneaton before bedtime afforded us much delight, as the
old town is full of antiquity, and is also known to fame as the birthplace
of George Eliot.

In the morning we took mine host's little son and daughter with us in
the canoe as far as Atherston, where we sent them safely back by train,
thoroughly delighted with their novel experience, ours being the only craft
of the kind that they had ever seen in those parts.

When we arrived at Caldecote we went ashore to