66 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



in the year. Soon we come to an ancient stone 

 bridge, where children are leaning over the low 

 parapet, dangling bottles and bread-crumbs to 

 catch minnows. A little way above the bridge 

 stands a mill of old red brick, roofed with 

 seasoned tiles that are tinted in all conceivable 

 shades of green, brown and red. We pass along 

 a grass-grown pathway through a straggling 

 garden, gay with wall-flowers and forget-me- 

 nots. On one side is an old orchard, with long 

 grass, dotted with daffodils. On the other side 

 is the stream, racing out of the mysterious 

 depths of the mill itself, from which comes the 

 chumping sound of the revolving wheel. We 

 go through a dark chamber over the hatch into 

 the daylight beyond, pausing to watch a big 

 trout, poised only a few inches above the boiling 

 turmoil of the mill-race, and holding his own 

 against the current by slow strokes of a broad, 

 square tail. A beauty, noted for future guidance. 

 Then a muddy track takes us through a copse 

 above the mill. One big clump of marsh-mari- 

 golds is growing on the edge of the water, the 

 stream washing its roots ; on both sides of the 

 track grow young dock-leaves and nettles that 

 will be waist-high a few weeks hence, and here 

 and there, close to the bank, the water-avens 

 shows its graceful, drooping heads, with their 



