scream of the curlew. The improbability of any one being near enough to hear me, so late, struck me, and I desisted from the useless labour. The stillness was intense, broken only at rare intervals by the bittern or curlew. How long I clung to the branch I do not know. Fortunately, the water was not cold. The clouds had cleared away, and the moon, near the full, shone brightly. Had it been dark, my courage must have given way, and I should most probably have sunk. As it was, I cannot say that I quite despaired of a rescue in some way or other. If I could only hold out till morning, some one might, I conjectured, come for the purpose of carrying away the turf sods, and might see my coat and gun, which would lead to a search. I had not much hope in the event of any search from the village; I had started in the direction of the cliffs, my favourite evening haunt, and I fancied that would be the direction the searchers would take. As the night wore on, oh! so slowly, with the moon so calmly gliding through the stars above me, I fell into a kind of stupor, and I can distinctly remember repeating scraps of verses totally unconnected with each other. From this state I was aroused by the loud note of some night-bird, probably an owl, and found my arms very stiff from holding on to the root, while my legs felt like weights of lead suspended beneath me. While

trying to change my position, I fancied I heard the gurgling sound of running water, and that not far off. I listened intently, and found it was no fancy. Water was evidently running into the pool, and I saw by the root to which I was clinging that the water had risen some inches.

A cheering hope sprang up within me, as it flashed across my mind that the tide must be rising, and that the pool must have an outlet into the river.

The thought infused new life into me, and I struck out in the direction of the sound. Then, to my intense joy, I saw distinctly, in the clear moonlight, that the water was streaming in fast through several small inlets, and pouring in quietly and steadily through one of the ditches up which I had previously swum. I knew that if the tide rose another foot or eighteen inches I could, by treading water fast, spring up so high as to be able to catch hold of the top of the bank, and so swing myself up. I knew also that the water could not possibly begin to flow into the bog-pools until it was nearly high tide. Returning to my resting-place, I watched anxiously, the prospect of speedy deliverance banishing all weariness. The water continued to pour in steadily and in greater volume. The dawn was now breaking, and I had not much longer to wait. The water had ceased flowing, and the bank in one.

place was barely five feet above the water.

Taking a

long breath, I let myself sink low; and then treading water as strongly and quickly as possible, I threw half my body above the surface of the pool, and caught the top with one hand. Before the soft earth had time to crumble beneath my weight I had obtained a firmer grasp with the other hand, and in another moment stood on the moss-saved, drinking in with eager gasps the fresh air of the morning.

The white haze was rapidly clearing away, and through it I saw five or six men hurrying towards me. I have a confused idea of being helped to my lodgings, and of afterwards telling my adventure to many eager questioners.

The soaking I had had, and the exposure to the unhealthy mists which rise from the morass in the night, caused an illness for a time, but the effects soon wore off.

The heron is stuffed, and adorns my cabinet, unconscious of the revenge which overtook its destroyer.*

* This article, which originally appeared in "Chambers' Journal," must not be taken as describing an adventure of the author's.

K

XVI.

BREYDON JACK

ALL who are led by business or pleasure to visit the quaint old town of Great Yarmouth must be familiar with Breydon Water. About five miles in length, and of proportionate width, Breydon, when the tide is in, forms a noble lake. At its head the sluggish waters of the Yare are released from their parent marshes, and, uniting with the purer stream of the beautiful Waveney, enter Breydon on their journey seawards. When the tide is out the rivers run through a wide channel, on either side of which stretch miles of glistening mudbanks, the ugly monotony of which is unrelieved by anything but stranded wreckage or flocks of wildfowl. One's first thought is how easily might all this expanse of mud be reclaimed and rendered good pasture by merely banking the river in; but upon con

sideration it is easy to see that Breydon is a safetyvalve for the tide, which would, if it had not room to expand after the narrow entrance at Southtown, "back up" the river water, and flood the inland marshes.

The river-channel is marked by a double row of massive square posts, one row being painted red and the other black, to enable the crews of vessels driven against them in the night to ascertain, by the simple process of striking a light, on which side of the channel they are.

Breydon Jack" was one of a species of men peculiar to waterside places. He was the proprietor of an old and "creechy" boat; and when not in bed, Jack (whose real name was much more aristocratic, although he was never known by any other than his soubriquet) was in his boat on Breydon, or up the river seeking a living in all kinds of ways. In the warm summer weather he might be seen "picking" for eels between Reedham and Cantley. Standing up in the bows of his skiff, he would drive his "pick," or spear, deep into the mud, and in the act of drawing it out impel his boat a yard or two forward, ready for another stroke, shaking off such eels as were impaled by the spear into the boat. When tired of picking he would make his boat fast, stem and stern, and bob for eels with a bunch of worms strung on worstead. Or perhaps you would