of trees and shrubs and flowers, which, in the light of the stars and the
lantern, seemed to belong to a world with which I was but vaguely familiar,
although I had travelled all over it in dreams.

Sometimes I used to go out fishing with the Otter on the Dordogne. When
the casting-net was left at home (it was of little use when the water was
clear) chub-fishing with the flying-line was generally the chosen form
of sport. Here I may say that my companion, who could turn his hand
to anything, made his own rods from hazel-sticks. Where the water was
sufficiently deep, the boat was rowed and steered with a single-bladed
paddle, but where it was shallow much better progress could be made by
polling. These are the two methods invariably used by the fishermen and
ferrymen of the Dordogne, and it is astonishing with what success they can
get a boat up the rapids without having recourse to the towing-line.

When we went chub-fishing, we took the boat a mile or so up-stream, and
then let it drift down with the current near a bank that was fringed with
willows and acacias. Although we needed only six inches of water, the depth
was sometimes miscalculated, and we went aground on a bank of pebbles. Then
the Otter, whose bare feet were always ready for such emergencies, stepped
out into the sparkling current, and hauled or pushed the boat over the
obstacle. What with rapids and banks of pebbles, the excitement of boating
on the Dordogne above Lalinde never flags. It looked very easy to throw a
line with a worm on it towards the shore, and then draw it back, but the
chub showed such little eagerness to be caught by me that I generally
preferred to steer and watch my companion pulling them out as he stood in
the prow, his face nearly hidden under the thatch of his straw hat. When
the fish were in a biting humour, he had one on his hook every time he
threw the line.