tricklets that have no organs for telling or knowing
their business, but only get into unwary oozings in and among the
water-grass, and there make moss and forget themselves among it--one and
all, they come to the same thing at last, and that is the river.

The Culm used to be a good river at Culmstock, tormented already by
a factory, but not strangled as yet by a railroad. How it is now the
present writer does not know, and is afraid to ask, having heard of a
vile "Culm Valley Line." But Culm-stock bridge was a very pretty place
to stand and contemplate the ways of trout; which is easier work than to
catch them. When I was just big enough to peep above the rim, or to lie
upon it with one leg inside for fear of tumbling over, what a mighty
river it used to seem, for it takes a treat there and spreads itself.
Above the bridge the factory stream falls in again, having done its
business, and washing its hands in the innocent half that has strayed
down the meadows. Then under the arches they both rejoice and come to a
slide of about two feet, and make a short, wide pool below, and indulge
themselves in perhaps two islands, through which a little river always
magnifies itself, and maintains a mysterious middle. But after that, all
of it used to come together, and make off in one body for the meadows,
intent upon nurturing trout with rapid stickles, and buttercuppy corners
where fat flies may tumble in. And here you may find in the very first
meadow, or at any rate you might have found, forty years ago, the
celebrated "Crocker's Hole."

The story of Crocker is unknown to me, and interesting as it doubtless
was, I do not deal with him, but with his Hole. Tradition said that he
was a baker's boy who, during his basket-rounds, fell in love with a
maiden who received the cottage-loaf, or perhaps good "Households," for
her master's use. No doubt she was charming, as a girl should be, but
whether she encouraged the youthful baker and then betrayed him with
false _role_, or whether she "consisted" throughout,--as our cousins
across the water express it,--is known to their _manes_ only. Enough
that she would not have the floury lad; and that he, after giving in his
books and money, sought an untimely grave among the trout. And this was
the first pool below the bread-walk deep enough to drown a five-foot
baker boy. Sad it was; but such things must be, and bread must still be
delivered daily.

A truce to such reflections,--as our for