A SURREY RIVER. 105 



ing and somersault-throwing will get that hold loose, 

 and after two or three turns he is landed on the 

 grass a good half-pounder. 



As we come back to the mill-pool we pick up 

 another, nearly the same size, and feel contented ; 

 for the stream is a short one, on the miller's land 

 at least. The trout do not care for the pond, as 

 there pike abound. Turning a bend, we are in front 

 of the pond, and the old house and mill : both lie 

 behind its bank, low down, sleeping in the sun. 



The pond is fringed round with rush and flag, 

 willows and alders of low growth the haunt of the 

 heron, and the home of the moor-hen and the rail. 

 Generations of millers have lived here ; a silvery 

 tint, the flour-dust of many years, has settled on 

 it; the very slabs and tiles on the roof, even the 

 chimney-stacks, are grey. Noble elms at the back, 

 close to the mill-yard, throw the old buildings out 

 in fine relief: it is a place to lull one to rest a very 

 sleepy man's hollow, where poet or artist might 

 dream the days away. There is no noise of traffic 

 to and fro only the rumble of the miller's carts 

 as they occasionally come in and go out, and the 

 soothing click-click-clack of the old mill-wheel. The 



