s more’, until in to o too a ligimes in t out to make a day of it ter and a bottle of lemonade, and fisc nig you’d eaten  of your bread paste, o cook t  river fis trout and salmon. ‘Nasty muddy t of all are t catcrous fiso see oernoons and  a rod  allo. On Sundays you o go for  and ton collar t sa I sa one. And sometimes in trout go sailing past. trout groo vast sizes in t tically never caug one of ttle-nosed blokes t you see muffled up in overcoats on camp-stools y-foot roac all seasons of to catcrout. I don’t blame t entirely, and still better I sa then.

    Of course ot my long trousers,  sc to Confirmation classes, told dirty stories, took to reading, and e mice, fretage stamps. But it’s al er- meadoance, and ter and ter, tjars stocks and latakia. Don’t mistake alking about. It’s not t I’m trying to put across any of t poetry of cuff. I kno’s all baloney. Old Porteous (a friend of mine, a retired scer, I’ll tell you about er) is great on try of cimes uff about it out of books. ordsime o say  no kids of rut kids aren’t in any ic, ttle animals, except t no animal is a quarter as selfis interested in meado a landscape, doesn’t give a damn for flo o eat,  kno from anot’s about as near to poetry as a boy gets. And yet all t peculiar intensity, t long ime stretc and out in front of you and t wever you’re doing you could go on for ever.

    I tle boy, ter-coloured  except for a quiff in front. I don’t idealize my co be young again. Most of to care for  care if I never see