k morning, when the sea was running high, a little boy was
sailing a fine model yacht in one of the great pools on the shore. The
tide was running in, and presently the advancing water rushed into the
pool. The yacht was just in the centre when the whirl of the sea took
her. She swung round; the westerly wind caught her, and in a moment she
was over the barrier and away into deep water. The little thing was well
leaded, and she went off like a dolphin. The youthful owner saw her now
and again as she topped the waves, and he lamented exceedingly. At last
it struck him to run north to the village. Just as he reached the cove,
Big Harry's younger sons were coming in after a night at sea. The men
were wet and sleepy enough, but when the little boy told them his story
they lifted him into the bow of the coble and shoved off again. With
three reefs in the sail they dodged out among the jumping seas, and ran
over the bay after the truant yacht. The swift coble soon overhauled the
runaway, and the men came back well drenched by their second trip. The
whole thing was done with perfect simplicity; and the fishermen would
not accept even a glass of ale from the boy's father. They said "they
were glad to see the bairn so pleased," and they tease the said "bairn"
about his skill in navigation even to this day. When we see kindness
like this we may be content to do without words or other minor
demonstrations.

During all the long nights Big Harry and Little Harry used to sit
together very silently. Sometimes when the corks at one part of the net
went under water suddenly, one of the men would say, "There's a troot
fast," but conversation did not extend beyond elementary observations
like this. The dark came down over the bay, and the last gleam died away
from the distant hills. The water purred softly with little treble
sounds against the sides of the boat; the trees made hoarse noises, and
sometimes the long whistle of an otter (who is also a trout fisher)
would come from the shaggy sides of the brown stream. The men sat on
amid the mystery of the night, but they had no care for the picturesque.
By-and-by the time for a haul would come, and the muscular fish were
pitched "flopping" into the basket. Then the nets were shot again, and
the resonant splashing begun. If the tide suited, the boat stayed on
till dawn. As soon as the cushats began to fly from the woods to the
fields, and the hillsides were streaked with grey motes of light,