216 FISHES I HAVE KNOWN 



At Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire, there was once 

 a beautiful stream that wound its way for miles 

 through wooded vales innocent of defilement ; but 

 one day manufacturing man appeared on the 

 scenes, recognised the utilitarian advantages of the 

 situation, erected blanket mills, that, pouring the 

 abomination of desolation into the little current, 

 turned its waters inky black and killed its fish. I 

 was staying at Sowerby Bridge some years ago, 

 and was in an angling mood, but clearly it was 

 hopeless to try that stream. 



I happened, however, to hear of a mill-dam on 

 the valley side that miglit contain something finny. 

 True, I found it not particularly pellucid an un- 

 pleasant scum lingered on its placid surface, nasty 

 blue mud edged it, and the carcase of a dog, 

 distended into a shapeless mass, was slowly 

 bobbing about. But there were roach sure 

 enough, for I saw them. 



Under the burning sun I fished, my boots 

 sinking deep in the unctuous mud (what will 

 not an ardent fisherman endure?) but no 

 bites ! 



Returning home, my host, a doctor, met me in 

 the garden. He asked me where I had been fish- 

 ing, and I told him. " Why, my dear fellow, don't 

 you know that typhus and cholera are rampant in 



