MORE FISHING NOTES. 235 



A favourite haunt of the pike, which we have 

 often visited — and hope to visit again if all goes well 

 with us — comes vividly before me. An old grey bridge 

 was there, spanning a narrow river in the heart of the 

 woodlands. Nothing is now left by time and winter 

 floods but the crumbling arches and the old track 

 on top : the parapet which protected either side has 

 gone long ago, for the oldest rustic in the village 

 could not tell us when it was in a different condition. 

 Rustic folk-lore hands it down as a tradition — and 

 we have found as a rule that there is much truth in 

 rustic lore — that the bridge belonged- to the Catholic 

 community of olden time that owned the mills above 

 and below it. There it stands, gradually crumbling 

 to pieces : neither waggon nor cart passes over it now, 

 and a very occasional foot-passenger, who, in most 

 cases, carries a rod. There is a sharp run of water 

 above, the home of bright silvery dace, herring-size, 

 and now and again good thick trout, real beauties. 

 These, with the bright glancing bleaks — or, as they 

 are sometimes called, willow - blades — live in this 

 shallow water above the ruined bridge; and they 

 keep there, if they can, for they know what is in store 

 for them below. We have seen a shoal of dace throw 



