1 5 c JUNE 



blackberries, and creep into the mimulus, which has 

 wholly occupied one low bank. And the list of the rare 

 and the lovely is not yet complete. A kingfisher has a 

 peculiar affection for the May tree that overhangs the 

 stream from the garden side, and is even fonder of fishing 

 for the many sticklebacks than the village children. 

 Water voles, which, some observers say, are being driven 

 out by the Hanoverian rat, are the commonest of all the 

 bank dwellers, and will paddle close to the bank till they 

 reach the kingfisher s thorn tree and are hit by the strong 

 current of the mill race. The slot even of an otter has 

 been traced there. 



So far all is as it once was ; but there are violent 

 changes, noted with emphasis to-day by the fishermen. 

 It is the hour of the Mayfly, which, in his rage for 

 synonyms, the flymaker calls olives. Trout delight to 

 move upstream ; and time was when the best and biggest 

 nosed up to the mill, could be seen from the bridge, and, 

 it was rumoured, could be netted by Mr. Miller. There 

 are still good trout in the stream ; but they no longer feel 

 their way up to the mill or frolic in the swift stream of 

 the race. The mill is silent. The little gold-mine, as 

 people used to say, is worked out. The wheel rots and 

 will revolve no more. The antique and rough but 

 effective village-made machinery will creak no more. 

 The holes in the old oak beams, bored for the pointed 

 handles of primitive candlesticks, are filled with dust and 

 cobwebs. Lamentations for the end of the last of our 

 country mills have ceased. The story is three years old ; 

 but the influence on the stream grows greater. The 

 miller no longer sends horse and harrow down the 

 middle of the stream to clear the weeds. The water is 

 no longer held up to rush through the arch and carry 

 obstructive silt with it. So the mud bank against the 



