WARGRAVE. - WAXWORKS. - SONNING. - OUR STEW. - MONTMORENCY IS SARCASTIC.

　　- FIGHT BETWEEN MONTMORENCY AND THE TEA-KETTLE. - GEORGE'S BANJO STUDIES.

　　- MEET WITH DISCOURAGEMENT. - DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY OF THE MUSICALAMATEUR. - LEARNING TO PLAY THE BAGPIPES. - HARRIS FEELS SAD AFTERSUPPER. - GEORGE AND I GO FOR A WALK. - RETURN HUNGRY AND WET. - THERE ISA STRANGENESS ABOUT HARRIS. - HARRIS AND THE SWANS, A REMARKABLE STORY. -HARRIS HAS A TROUBLED NIGHT.

　　WE caught a breeze, after lunch, which took us gently up past Wargraveand Shiplake. Mellowed in the drowsy sunlight of a summer's afternoon,Wargrave, nestling where the river bends, makes a sweet old picture asyou pass it, and one that lingers long upon the retina of memory.

　　The "George and Dragon" at Wargrave boasts a sign, painted on the oneside by Leslie, R.A., and on the other by Hodgson of that ilk. Lesliehas depicted the fight; Hodgson has imagined the scene, "After the Fight"- George, the work done, enjoying his pint of beer.

　　Day, the author of SANDFORD AND MERTON, lived and - more credit to theplace still - was killed at Wargrave. In the church is a memorial toMrs. Sarah Hill, who bequeathed 1 pound annually, to be divided atEaster, between two boys and two girls who "have never been undutiful totheir parents; who have never been known to swear or to tell untruths, tosteal, or to break windows." Fancy giving up all that for five shillingsa year! It is not worth it.

　　It is rumoured in the town that once, many years ago, a boy appeared whoreally never had done these things - or at all events, which was all thatwas required or could be expected, had never been known to do them - andthus won the crown of glory. He was exhibited for three weeks afterwardsin the Town Hall, under a glass case.

　　What has become of the money since no one knows. They say it is alwayshanded over to the nearest wax-works show.

　　Shiplake is a pretty village, but it cannot be seen from the river, beingupon the hill. Tennyson was married in Shiplake Church.

　　The river up to Sonning winds in and out through many islands, and isvery placid, hushed, and lonely. Few folk, except at twilight, a pair ortwo of rustic lovers, walk along its banks. `Arry and Lord Fitznoodlehave been left behind at Henley, and dismal, dirty Reading is not yetreached. It is a part of the river in which to dream of bygone days, andvanished forms and faces, and things that might have been, but are not,confound them.

　　We got out at Sonning, and went for a walk round the village. It is themost fairy-like little nook on the whole river. It is more like a stagevillage than one built of bricks and mortar. Every house is smothered inroses, and now, in early June, they were bursting forth in clouds ofdainty splendour. If you stop at Sonning, put up at the "Bull," behindthe church. It is a veritable picture of an old country inn, with green,square courtyard in front, where, on seats beneath the trees, the old mengroup of an evening to drink their ale and gossip over village politics;with low, quaint rooms and latticed windows, and awkward stairs andwinding passages.

　　We roamed about sweet Sonning for an hour or so, and then, it being toolate to push on past Reading, we decided to go back to one of theShiplake islands, and put up there for the night. It was still earlywhen we got settled, and George said that, as we had plenty of time, itwould be a splendid opportunity to try a good, slap-up supper. He saidhe would show us what could be done up the river in the way of cooking,and suggested that, with the vegetables and the remains of the cold beefand general odds and ends, we should make an Irish stew.

　　It seemed a fascinating idea. George gathered wood and made a fire, andHarris and I started to peel the potatoes. I should never have thoughtthat peeling potatoes was such an undertaking. The job turned out to bethe biggest thing of its kind that I had ever been in. We begancheerfully, one might almost say skittishly, but our light-heartednesswas gone by the time the first potato was finished. The more we peeled,the more peel there seemed to be left on; by the time we had got all thepeel off and all the eyes out, there was no potato left - at least noneworth speaking of. George came and had a look at it - it was about thesize of a pea-nut. He said:

　　"Oh, that won't do! You're wasting them. You must scrape them."So we scraped them, and that was harder work than peeling. They are suchan extraordinary shape, potatoes - all bumps and warts and hollows. Weworked steadily for five-and-twenty minutes, and did four potatoes. Thenwe struck. We said we should require the rest of the evening forscraping ourselves.

　　I never saw such a thing as potato-scraping for making a fellow in amess. It seemed difficult to believe that the potato-scrapings in whichHarris and I stood, half smothered, could have come off four potatoes.

　　It shows you what can be done with economy and care.

　　George said it was absurd to have only four potatoes in an Irish stew, sowe washed half-a-dozen or so more, and put them in without peeling. Wealso put in a cabbage and about half a peck of peas. George stirred itall up, and then he said that there seemed to be a lot of room to spare,so we overhauled both the hampers, and picked out all the odds and endsand the remnants, and added them to the stew. There were half a pork pieand a bit of cold boiled bacon left, and we put them in. Then Georgefound half a tin of potted salmon, and he emptied that into the pot.

　　He said that was the advantage of Irish stew: you got rid of such a lotof things. I fished out a couple of eggs that had got cracked, and putthose in. George said they would thicken the gravy.

　　I forget the other ingredients, but I know nothing was wasted; and Iremember that, towards the end, Montmorency, who had evinced greatinterest in the proceedings throughout, strolled away with an earnest andthoughtful air, reappearing, a few minutes afterwards, with a dead water-rat in his mouth, which he evidently wished to present as hiscontribution to the dinner; whether in a sarcastic spirit, or with agenuine desire to assist, I cannot say.

　　We had a discussion as to whether the rat should go in or not. Harrissaid that he thought it would be all right, mixed up with the otherthings, and that every little helped; but George stood up for precedent.

　　He said he had never heard of water-rats in Irish stew, and he wouldrather be on the safe side, and not try experiments.

　　Harris said:

　　"If you never try a new thing, how can you tell what it's like? It's mensuch as you that hamper the world's progress. Think of the man who firsttried German sausage!"It was a great success, that Irish stew. I don't think I ever enjoyed ameal more. There was something so fresh and piquant about it. One'spalate gets so tired of the old hackneyed things: here was a dish with anew flavour, with a taste like nothing else on earth.

　　And it was nourishing, too. As George said, there was good stuff in it.

　　The peas and potatoes might have been a bit softer, but we all had goodteeth, so that did not matter much: and as for the gravy, it was a poem -a little too rich, perhaps, for a weak stomach, but nutritious.

　　We finished up with tea and cherry tart. Montmorency had a fight withthe kettle during tea-time, and came off a poor second.

　　Throughout the trip, he had manifested great curiosity concerning thekettle. He would sit and watch it, as it boiled, with a puzzledexpression, and would try and rouse it every now and then by growling atit. When it began to splutter and steam, he regarded it as a challenge,and would want to fight it, only, at that precise moment, some one wouldalways dash up and bear off his prey before he could get at it.

　　To-day he determined he would be beforehand. At the first sound thekettle made, he rose, growling, and advanced towards it in a threateningattitude. It was only a little kettle, but it was full of pluck, and itup and spit at him.

　　"Ah! would ye!" growled Montmorency, showing his teeth; "I'll teach ye tocheek a hard-working, respectable dog; ye miserable, long-nosed, dirty-looking scoundrel, ye. Come on!"And he rushed at that poor little kettle, and seized it by the spout.

　　Then, across the evening stillness, broke a blood-curdling yelp, andMontmorency left the boat, and did a constitutional three times round theisland at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour, stopping every now andthen to bury his nose in a bit of cool mud.

　　From that day Montmorency regarded the kettle with a mixture of awe,suspicion, and hate. Whenever he saw it he would growl and back at arapid rate, with his tail shut down, and the moment it was put upon thestove he would promptly climb out of the boat, and sit on the bank, tillthe whole tea business was over.

　　George got out his banjo after supper, and wanted to play it, but Harrisobjected: he said he had got a headache, and did not feel strong enoughto stand it. George thought the music might do him good - said musicoften soothed the nerves and took away a headache; and he twanged two orthree notes, just to show Harris what it was like.

　　Harris said he would rather have the headache.

　　George has never learned to play the banjo to this day. He has had toomuch all-round discouragement to meet. He tried on two or threeevenings, while we were up the river, to get a little practice, but itwas never a success. Harris's language used to be enough to unnerve anyman; added to which, Montmorency would sit and howl steadily, rightthrough the performance. It was not giving the man a fair chance.

　　"What's he want to howl like that for when I'm playing?" George wouldexclaim indignantly, while taking aim at him with a boot.

　　"What do you want to play like that for when he is howling?" Harris wouldretort, catching the boot. "You let him alone. He can't help howling.

　　He's got a musical ear, and your playing MAKES him howl."So George determined to postpone study of the banjo until he reachedhome. But he did not get much opportunity even there. Mrs. P. used tocome up and say she was very sorry - for herself, she liked to hear him -but the lady upstairs was in a very delicate state, and the doctor wasafraid it might injure the child.

　　Then George tried taking it out with him late at night, and practisinground the square. But the inhabitants complained to the police about it,and a watch was set for him one night, and he was captured. The evidenceagainst him was very clear, and he was bound over to keep the peace forsix months.

　　He seemed to lose heart in the business after that. He did make one ortwo feeble efforts to take up the work again when the six months hadelapsed, but there was always the same coldness - the same want ofsympathy on the part of the world to fight against; and, after awhile, hedespaired altogether, and advertised the instrument for sale at a greatsacrifice - "owner having no further use for same" - and took to learningcard tricks instead.

　　It must be disheartening work learning a musical instrument. You wouldthink that Society, for its own sake, would do all it could to assist aman to acquire the art of playing a musical instrument. But it doesn't!

　　I knew a young f............