Thus James would announce at breakfast that prawns were the day's
quarry, and the foreshore round Cobo Bay the hunting-ground. And to
Cobo, accordingly, we would set out. This prawn-yielding area extends
along the coast on the other side of St. Peter's Port, where two halts
had to be made, one at Madame Garnier's, the confectioners, the other
at the library, to get fiction, which I never read. Then came a journey
on the top of the antediluvian horse-tram, a sort of _diligence_
on rails; and then a whole summer's afternoon among the prawns. Cobo is
an expanse of shingle, dotted with seaweed and rocks; and Guernsey is a
place where one can take off one's shoes and stockings on the slightest
pretext. We waded hither and thither with the warm brine lapping
unchecked over our bare legs. We did not use our nets very
industriously, it is true; but our tongues were seldom still. The slow
walk home was a thing to be looked forward to. Ah! those memorable
homecomings in the quiet solemnity of that hour, when a weary sun
stoops, one can fancy with a sigh of pleasure, to sink into the bosom
of the sea!

Prawn-hunting was agreeably varied by fish-snaring, mussel-stalking,
and mushroom-trapping--sports which James, in his capacity of Head
Forester, included in his venery.

For mushroom-trapping an early start had to be made--usually between
six and seven. The chase took us inland, until, after walking through
the fragrant, earthy lanes, we turned aside into dewy meadows, where
each blade of grass sparkled with a gem of purest water. Again the
necessity of going barefoot. Breakfast was late on these mornings, my
mother whiling away the hours of waiting with a volume of Diogenes
Laertius in the bow-window. She would generally open the meal with the
remark that Anaximander held the primary cause of all things to be the