A SURREY RIVER. 105 



ing and somersault-throwing will get that hold loose, 

 and after two or three turns he is landed on the 

 grass — a good half-pounder. 



As we come back to the mill-pool we pick up 

 another, nearly the same size, and feel contented ; 

 for the stream is a short one, on the miller's land 

 at least. The trout do not care for the pond, as 

 there pike abound. Turning a bend, we are in front 

 of the pond, and the old house and mill : both lie 

 behind its bank, low down, sleeping in the sun. 



The pond is fringed round with rush and flag, 

 willows and alders of low growth — the haunt of the 

 heron, and the home of the moor-hen and the rail. 

 Generations of millers have lived here ; a silvery 

 tint, the flour-dust of many years, has settled on 

 it; the very slabs and tiles on the roof, even the 

 chimney-stacks, are grey. Noble elms at the back, 

 close to the mill-yard, throw the old buildings out 

 in fine relief: it is a place to lull one to rest — a very 

 sleepy man's hollow, where poet or artist might 

 dream the days away. There is no noise of traffic 

 to and fro — Only the rumble of the miller's carts 

 as they occasionally come in and go out, and the 

 soothing click-click-clack of the old mill-wheel. The 



