The Open Air 



golden buttercups, past fields crimson with trifolium 

 or green with young wheat. Handsome sailing craft 

 would come down spanking before the breeze, laden 

 with bright girls laughter on board, and love the 

 golden fleece of their argosy. 



I should converse with the ancient men of the 

 ferries, and listen to their river lore; they would 

 show me the mark to which the stream rose in 

 the famous year of floods. On again to the cool 

 hostelry whose sign was reflected in the water, 

 where there would be a draught of fine ale for the 

 heated and thirsty sculler. On again till steeple or 

 tower rising over the trees marked my journey's end 

 for the day, some old town where, after rest and 

 refreshment, there would be a ruin or a timbered 

 house to look at, where I should meet folk full of 

 former days and quaint tales of yore. Thus to 

 journey on from place to place would be the great 

 charm of the river travelling by water, not merely 

 sculling to and fro, but really travelling. Upon a 

 lake I could but row across and back again, and 

 however lovely the scenery might be, still it would 

 always be the same. But the Thames, upon the river 

 I could really travel, day after day, from Teddington 

 Lock upwards to Windsor, to Oxford, on to quiet 

 Lechlade, or even farther deep into the meadows by 

 Cricklade. Every hour there would be something 

 interesting, all the freshwater life to study, the very 

 barges would amuse me, and at last there would be 

 the delicious ease of floating home carried by the 

 stream, repassing all that had pleased before. 



The time came. I lived by the river, not far from 

 its widest reaches, before the stream meets its tide. 

 I went to the eyot for a boat, and my difficulties 

 began. The crowd of boats lashed to each other in 



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