A LONDON TROUT 



able to come again, or was discouraged ; at any 

 rate, he did not try again. The fish escaped, 

 doubtless more wary than ever. 



In the spring of the next year the trout was still 

 there, and up to the summer I used to go and glance 

 at him. This was the fourth season, and still he 

 was there ; I took friends to look at this wonder- 

 ful fish, which defied all the loafers and poach- 

 ers, and, above all, surrounded himself not only 

 with the shadow of the bridge, but threw a mental 

 shadow over the minds of passers-by, so that they 

 never thought of the possibility of such a thing 

 as trout. But one morning something happened. 

 The brook was dammed up on the sunny side of 

 the bridge, and the water let off by a side-hatch, 

 that some accursed main or pipe or other horror 

 might be laid across the bed of the stream some- 

 where far down. 



Above the bridge there was a brimming broad 

 brook, below it the flags lay on the mud, the weeds 

 drooped, and the channel was dry. It was dry up 

 to the beech tree. There, under the drooping 

 boughs of the beech, was a small pool of muddy 

 water, perhaps two yards long, and very narrow 

 a stagnant muddy pool, not more than three or 

 four inches deep. In this I saw the trout. In 

 the shallow water, his back came up to the surface 

 (for his fins must have touched the mud sometimes) 

 -89- 



