THE RIVER 115 



a foot, and his judgment must never fail him at the 

 critical time. 



But the few brief hours when the circumstances are 

 favourable compensate for delays and monotonous calms ; 

 the vessel, built on well-judged lines, answers her helm 

 and responds to his will with instant obedience, and that 

 sense of command is perhaps the great charm of sailing. 

 There are others who find a pleasure in the yacht. 

 When at her moorings on a sunny morning she is some- 

 times boarded by laughing girls, who have put off from 

 the lawn, and who proceed in the most sailor-like fashion 

 to overhaul the rigging and see that everything is ship- 

 shape. No position shows off a well-poised figure to such 

 advantage as when, in a close-fitting costume, a lady's 

 arms are held high above her head to haul at a rope. 



So -the river life flows by ; skiffs, and four oars, canoes, 

 solitary scullers in outriggers, once now and then a swift 

 eight, launches, a bargee in a tublike dingey standing up 

 and pushing his sculls instead of pulling ; gentlemen, 

 with their shoulders in a halter, hauling like horses and 

 towing fair freights against the current ; and punts poled 

 across to shady nooks. The splashing of oars, the 

 staccato sound as a blade feathered too low meets the 

 wavelets, merry voices, sometimes a song, and always a 

 low undertone, which, as the wind accelerates it, rises to 

 a roar. It is the last leap of the river to the sea ; the 

 last weir to whose piles the tide rises. On the bank of 

 the weir where the tide must moisten their roots grow 

 dense masses of willowherb, almost as high as the 

 shoulder, with trumpet-shaped pink flowers. 



Let us go back again to the bank by the cornfields, 

 with the glorious open stretch of stream. In the even- 

 ing, the rosy or golden hues of the sunset will be re- 

 flected on the surface from the clouds ; then the bats 



