58 By Leafy Ways. 



away from sight or sound of man, unless it be a gaunt 

 windmill that rears its spectral arms against the sky. 



The lamp is lit, the red curtains are drawn. 



You go on deck for a last look before turning in. 

 It is a night of perfect quiet. The river is as smooth 

 as glass, and across the broad reflection of the moon 

 the coots and moorhens appear for a moment as they 

 paddle out from their covert in the reeds, now clear 

 cut in ebony upon the polished silver, now lost again 

 in the gloom. Now and then comes the croak of a 

 heron fishing on the bank, or the leap of a fish or the 

 splash of a water-rat. 



Night in these solitudes is very still and silent. 

 There is rarely any sound to break one's slumber 

 louder than the ceaseless lapping of the ripples on the 

 side, the weird cries of wildfowl flying over unseen, 

 or the rush 01 some belated sail going past you 

 through the darkness like a ghost. 



