By Quiet Waters. 55 



even to float the lazy ensign. The sails flap idly this 

 way and that. The ship drifts gently with the stream. 

 You bask on the cabin roof with a book in your hand, 

 or, perhaps, a gun across your knee, and reflect that 

 time was made for slaves. 



There is plenty of water-way for the yachtsman, 

 long stretches of river, whose course doubling on 

 itself makes steady sailing difficult at times, and 

 increases the monotony of the broad level lands 

 bristling with windmills like the coast of Holland. 



There is more room on the Broads themselves. 

 Fair sheets of water some of them, with trim lawns, 

 and stately houses, and well-timbered parks. 



Others less wide, encircled with noble trees, through 

 which show, here and there, the red roofs of peaceful 

 farms with fields of ripening corn stretching far away 

 on every hand. 



Others again are shallow and weedy, with low and 

 treeless shores fringed everywhere with a dense forest 

 of reeds and bulrushes, the harbour of coot and moor- 

 hen, and the sanctuary for the brown water-rail who 

 loves to hide within its shadows. 



For the lover of nature and of solitude there are 

 other lakes, less known and more difficult of access. 



The narrow dyke half concealed by the tall rushes 

 will admit nothing larger than the dingy. Fleets of 

 white lilies, at anchor in the soft setting of their shining 

 leaves, rustle against the sides of the skiff. Long 

 festoons of weed cling fast about the oar blades ; 



