THE RIVER 117 



link with the olden time, the otter, still endeavours to 

 live near. 



Perhaps the river is sweetest to look on in spring time 

 or early summer. Seen from a distance the water seems 

 at first sight, when the broad stream fills the vision as a 

 whole, to flow with smooth, even current between meadow 

 and cornfield. But, coming to the brink, that silvery sur- 

 face now appears exquisitely chased with ever-changing 

 lines. The light airs, wandering to and fro where high 

 banks exclude the direct influence of the breeze, flutter 

 the ripples hither and thither, so that, instead of rolling 

 upon one lee shore, they meet and expend their little 

 force upon each other. A continuous rising and falling, 

 without a line of direction, thus breaks up the light, not 

 with sparkle or glitter, but with endless silvery facets. 



There is no pattern. The apparently intertangled trac- 

 ing on a work of art presently resolves itself into a design, 

 which once seen is always the same. These wavelets form 

 no design ; watch the sheeny maze as long as one will, the 

 eye cannot get at the clue, and so unwind the pattern. 



Each seems for a second exactly like its fellow, but 

 varies while you say "These two are the same," and 

 the white reflected light upon the wide stream is now 

 strongest here, and instantly afterwards flickers yonder. 



Where a gap in the willows admits a current of air a 

 ripple starts to rush straight across, but is met by another 

 returning, which has been repulsed from the bluff bow 

 of a moored boat, and the two cross and run through 

 each other. As the level of the stream now slightly 

 rises and again falls, the jagged top of a large stone by 

 the shore alternately appears above, or is covered by the 

 .surface. The water as it retires leaves for a moment 

 a hollow in itself by the stone, and then swings back to 

 fill the vacuum. 



