FROM SPRING TO- FALL. 



with their own inborn tendencies, cubs do not come 

 to grief. In fact, no one could try to hurt them or 

 their parents in their childhood, if he once saw a lot 

 of them at play. 



Click, clack, click, clack — clack, click ! comes 

 from inside the mill, these sounds being mingled 

 with the slush, slush, slush of the wheel, and the 

 rush of water over the apron of the sluice. 



The very look of the place would be enough to 

 make any angler go through the pantomime of 

 using a rod, if he could not fish there. A quiet 

 place this is, one of the old-fashioned water-mills 

 that have only recently been altered — that is, spoilt 

 for ever, so far as the picturesque is concerned; 

 for where the fine chimney-stacks used to be, tall 

 shafts now are. Steam-power has altered some 

 mills, and the ponds that once supplied the water- 

 power to work them, almost beyond recognition. 

 Not only that, but the old class of millers, and 

 the men that worked for them, are gone also. 



In the course of a short two years, 1892 and 1893, 

 there have been more alterations than at one time 

 could have been thought possible. 



There were old tumbling bays, crossed by plank 



