The stream filling with enormous fish

In this case I dream that I am walking in the fields. I saunter along idly, pleasantly, through level meadows, and by and by come to a narrow stream; the whole scene being just such an one as the angler resorts to in Hampshire. But I am no fisherman, and never think of rod-fishing except as a dull delight about which a vast deal of lyrical nonsense is sung to one old tune. Yet, when I look into the stream, and see there many good fish gliding, I wish for a rod and a creel. The wish is no sooner formed than it rises to eagerness, for at every moment the fish become larger and larger and still more plentiful. Before long they might be baled out with a bucket; yet a little while and they might be cast to the bank in heaps with a malt-shovel. Rapidly changing in shape and size from pretty one-pound trout to great-eyed, loose-mouthed cod-like monsters, they presently fill the whole bed of the stream — fill it pile-high in a horrible sweltering heap; which becomes more horrible still in another moment, when the ghastly creatures die and fall to pieces. An unendurable sight, instantly followed by the relief of waking, but not to shake off the squalid terror of the scene for hours after. At intervals of months, or more frequently of years, this dream has been repeated many times, with no difference of detail whatever; except, perhaps, the direction of the stream or the time of day. And it is to the purpose (as my being no angler is) that though I often dream, my dreams are very rarely ' bad.' They are almost invariably as pleasant as reading in a good book of romance or listening to strange, significant stories of real life.