The tide slackened, and

and passed it to me, and I had a sip. So had the boatmen. They seemed to like it, so we let them very nearly finish it, of course while C— was intently looking at the water. I then filled up the bottle with salt water, and replaced it. Presently C-took it out for a pull, amid our laughter. He said nothing, and before long his turn came. the lines were continually fouling each other. C—, on hauling his up, found that he had hauled T-'s hooks up with it, of which T— was quite unaware. Cimmediately slipped off the large oilcloth apron he was wearing to keep off the water, and hooked it on to T-'s line, letting it slip into the water again.

I've got such a whopper on!" by-and-by exclaimed T—. “See how he tugs. Bear a hand here, somebody."

The apron kept sheering to right and to left in the water, and T- got proportionably excited.

"Now, where's the gaff?-the line will break. It's a skate, I saw him. Here he is. Steady. Law!!!"

Amid our uproarious laughter T- sat looking, and probably feeling, more sold than he had ever done before.

If there is nothing else to do, the visitor can go out with the men to haul in the crab and lobster pots. It is a very pretty sight to see the crab-boats start out

together to the fishing grounds. You follow the large lug sails of the fleet with your eye, and all at once they suddenly disappear from view. This is caused by their lowering their sails when they arrive at the spot where the crab-pots are. You may then, on looking closely, just distinguish them as dark specks on the sea. They as suddenly reappear to the eye as the sails are hoisted, and they come sailing merrily home, the white foam flying from their bows.

I do not know whether any fishing is to be had from the pier, as at Yarmouth, or from the beach, as at Lowestoft, where the custom is to throw out lines armed with several hooks, and pegged into the sand at one end, while the other is leaded. They are thrown out by means of a stick with a notch in it. Dabs, small codlings, and bass are caught by them. I should say that both these methods might be tried with success at Cromer.

Cromer has no gas, and consequently it is a little difficult to find one's way about after dark. I recollect walking up and down the short street in which the Post-office is situate four or five times before I succeeded in finding the letter-box, and then I discovered it by feeling for it.

I have mentioned that the sun both rises from and sets in the sea, thus affording two beautiful sights each

day to the lover of nature. People take a very great deal of trouble to get to mountain tops in the dark to see the sun rise. They can see it under equally beautiful, and far more comfortable, circumstances at Cromer. Not long ago I was up at half-past three in the morning, and went down to the first breakwater for a bathe. Early as I was, there was a gentleman there before me. He said he had got up at that time to see the sun rise for three mornings, and "it had not risen satisfactorily yet."

What do you mean?" said I.

Why, it rises out of a bank of clouds, and not direct from the water."

He expressed his intention to be up as early the next morning. I hope the sun rose satisfactorily then. Cromer will be spoiled when the rail goes there.

BIRDS often choose strange nesting-places. Instances are not very rare of tomtits building in letter-boxes, pumps, and such-like erections which are in constant use. Only the other day I read that a robin's nest was found in the pocket of a labourer's coat which had been hanging up in an outbuilding for some time. To the credit of the owner of the coat, the birds were

allowed to hatch their eggs and bring up their young. Thrushes often build their large and conspicuous nests in what would appear to be anything but safe places. Last spring I saw a wagtail's nest built under the sill of a bay window of a public-house, just outside a room where noisy dances were often carried on, and above the entrance to a skittle alley. Not only was the wagtail so fearless, but a cuckoo also laid her egg in the nest, and the young cuckoo was hatched, and of course looked at many times a day by curious eyes.

Perhaps the strangest nesting-place chosen by any bird is that depicted in the sketch at the top of this article. A human skull, a stray from a neglected private museum, was lying in some out-of-the-way corner in a garden, and a wren built her nest in it. The skull is in the possession of my friend Harcourt, who made the sketch from it.

What a subject this presents to moralize upon! The head that once was the birthplace of so many thoughts, to be now the birthplace of innocent little birds. The head that once felt so many hopes and fears, so many anxieties and troubles, to again have within it, in the persons of the wrens, the joys and cares of a family. Just imagine the contrast between then and now. Did the man who owned that head ever think, as he trod the pavement in all the vigour of life, of the