IN THE NORTH OF KENT 53 
had built and were singing their nesting 
songs. Strangely varied are the scenes that 
meet the eye as the train whirls you eastward 
from the great metropolis along the Thames. 
Thousands of flat acres skirt its banks on the 
north side, dotted with innumerable sheep, 
cattle and horses at this time of the year. 
Now, great gasometers are borne upon one, 
gaunt chimneys and black hulls of ships, 
forests of masts and variously coloured funnels 
of great ocean-going steamers or the smaller 
tugs. The nose is assailed with the smell of 
pitch and oil, whilst the sound of many 
hammers tells of incessant toil. Then the 
train bursts into the neat little railway station 
with its trees and plot of cultivated ground, 
the name spelt out neatly and distinctly 
amongst the flower beds in white lumps of 
chalk. In the middle distance the water 
highway from the greatest city in the world 
flows swiftly along with the outgoing tide, 
reflecting the sun here and there, in silver 
streaks, or the clouds by leaden hues. There 
rolls up from the river now and then the 
