2i6 FISHES I HAVE KNOWN 



At Sovverby 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 might contain something finn\'. 

 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 slowh' 

 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. " Wh)-, my dear fellow, don't 

 you know that typhus and cholera are rampant in 



