‘So up they comes. Up the river with a swingeing flood tide, and a fair breeze and a bright sky, and all shining and sparkling. The old walls and slips and yards was crowded, and everyone cheered and waved. The Vicar he started the bells, and hoists the flag on the church tower. ’Twas a grand and wonderful sight. ‘Fust comes the lugger, with Dark and his mate keeping well out o’ sight, and Mr. and Mrs. Harris standing well forrard so that all might see. And as they come Mr. Harris takes off his tall hat and bows and waves, this way and that way, while his bald head and new glasses shines in the sun. And Mrs. Harris, who ’ad got her wedding clothes sent over from ’Coombe, furls her white parasol, and bows that way and this way, very dignified, from the hips like. Then comes the band a-banging away, and then the little row-boats and sailing boats, and then the barges and ketches and trawlers, and two barques, and all shouting and cheering. And what was best o’ all, sir,’ said old John, tapping my knee in his earnestness, ‘there were no nasty steamers with their smeech and noise. ’Twas all good sails, sweet and pleasant. ‘Well, Dark brings to, and drops anchor off the quay. Cap’n Batten goes off with his gig, me bein’ one o’ the crew. We brings Mr. and Mrs. Harris ashore, and they lands on the quay. The mob form a lane, and Mr. Harris leads his wife along it. Outside his ’ouse he stops, and waves his ’at again, and bows and smiles, and then puts his arm round Mrs. Harris and kisses her afore everyone. Then he opens the door, and takes her in, and shuts it. ‘And that, sir, is how Mr. Harris brought his wife to Appledore.’ The old man paused and sighed. ‘It were a brave sight,’ he said. ‘Mr. Harris is up for the Council now. He says ’twill be the proudest day o’ his life if he gets put in. H’m wrong there. His proudest day were when he brought his wife home to Appledore.’ ‘But what about the queasiness coming home?’ I demanded, ‘and why didn’t⸺’ but my questions were only partially asked. A shiver came over the shining water; a myriad trickles and rivulets spread themselves over the great mass of sand that lay exposed to our right hand. The tide had turned. ‘Get your rod, sir; they won’t be long now. Watch the gulls! The queasiness? Oh, that never come back. The doing in the lifeboat were kill or cure, and it cured him. Anyway, he never ’ad no more o’ it. He—but look there, sir! There’s the bass. My yarn’s spun just in time.’ I flicked the blue-and-white minnow free of the rod. Old John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and grasped the oars. For the rest of the morning _Perca Labrax_ held the stage. W. H. ADAMS. _SIGNS AND NOTICES ON THE WESTERN FRONT._ BY F. J. SALMON.