THE RIVER 113 



when a freshet followed a storm. The flowers are not so 

 perfectly bell-shaped as those of some plants, but are 

 rather tubular. They appear in April, though then green, 

 and may be found all the summer months. Where the 

 comfrey grows thickly the white bells give some colour 

 to the green of the bank, and would give more were they 

 not so often overshadowed by the leaves. 



Water betony, or persicaria, lifts its pink spikes every- 

 where, tiny florets close together round the stem at the 

 top ; the leaves are willow-shaped, and there is scarcely 

 a hollow or break in the bank where the earth has fallen 

 which is not clothed with them. A mile or two up the 

 river the tansy is plentiful, bearing golden buttons, which, 

 like every fragment of the feathery foliage, if pressed in 

 the fingers, impart to them a peculiar scent. There, too, 

 the yellow loosestrife pushes up its tall slender stalks to 

 the top of the low willow-bushes, that the bright yellow 

 flowers may emerge from the shadow. 



The river itself, the broad stream, ample and full, 

 exhibits all its glory in this reach ; from One Tree to the 

 Lock it is nearly straight, and the river itself is every- 

 thing. Between wooded hills, or where divided by 

 numerous islets, or where trees and hedges enclose the 

 view, the stream is but part of the scene. Here it is 

 all. The long raised bank without a hedge or fence, 

 with the cornfields on its level, simply guides the eye 

 to the water. Those who are afloat upon it insensibly 

 yield to the influence of the open expanse. 



The boat whose varnished sides but now slipped so 

 gently that the cutwater did not even raise a wavelet, and 

 every black rivet-head was visible as a line of dots, begins 

 to forge ahead. The oars are dipped farther back, and 

 as the blade feels the water holding it in the hollow, the 

 lissom wood bends to its work. Before the cutwater a 



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