ever been caught. Thirty years ago,
in the hundreds of bays which indent the shores of Sydney harbour, and
along the Parramatta and Lane Cove Rivers, they were very plentiful and
of great size; now, one over 3 lbs. is seldom caught, for the greedy
and dirty Italian and Greek fishermen who infest the harbour with their
fine-meshed nets have practically exterminated them. In other harbours
of New South Wales, however--notably Jervis and Twofold Bays--these
handsome fish are still plentiful, and there I have caught them winter
and summer, during the day under a hot and blazing sun, and on dark,
calm nights.

In shape the black bream is exactly as his brighter-hued brother, but
his scales are of a dark colour, like partially tarnished silver; he is
broader and heavier about the head and shoulders, and he swims in a
more leisurely, though equally cautious, manner, always bringing-to
the instant anything unusual attracts his attention. Then, with gently
undulating tail and steady eye, he regards the object before him, or
watches a shadow above with the keenest scrutiny. If it is a small, dead
fish, or other food which is sinking, say ten yards in front, he will
gradually come up closer and closer, till he satisfies himself that
there is no line attached--then he makes a lightning-like dart, and
vanishes in an instant with the morsel between his strong, thick jaws.
If, however, he sees the most tempting bait--a young yellow-tail, a
piece of white and red octopus tentacle, or a small, silvery mullet--and
detects even a fine silk line attached to the cleverly hidden hook, he
makes a stern-board for a foot or two, still eyeing the descending
bait; then, with languid contempt, he slowly turns away, and swims off
elsewhere.

In my boyhood's days black-bream fishing was a never-ending source of
delight to my brothers and myself. We lived at Mosman's Bay, one of
the deepest and most picturesque of the many beautiful inlets of Sydney
Harbour. The place is now a populous marine suburb with terraces of
shoddy, jerry-built atrocities crowding closely around many beautiful
houses with spacious grounds surrounded by handsome trees. Threepenny
steamers, packed with people, run every half-hour from Sydney, and the
once beautiful dell at the head of the bay, into which a crystal stream
of water ran, is as squalid and detestable as a Twickenham lane in
summer, when the path is strewn with bits of greasy newspaper which have
held fried fish.