QUIET WATERS 



" Like playhouse scenes the shore slid past." 



KIPLING. 



LOVABLE as is the open sea when the spray drenches 

 the scanty clothing of the steersman and rains upon 

 his lips salty salutation, yet is there rare delightsome- 

 ness in reverse of the wet frolic. 



A few minutes past the deck glistened in the sun 

 as each rollicking billow sent its herald over the bows, 

 and here the surface of the river is almost rippleless. 

 Shallows and uncertainties perplex its union with the 

 ocean. Sombre green mangroves screen its muddy 

 banks at full tide and trail leathery leaves and the tips 

 of spindly fruit on its placid surface. Pendant roots 

 and immersed branches create on each hand a con- 

 tinuous scroll of wavering ridges and eddies bordered 

 with the living tints of the steadfast wall of leafage. 

 The sun so burnishes the mid-stream ribbon that the 

 boat seems to float on an invisible element. Though 

 the topmost leaves of the mangroves fail to disclose 

 any movement in the air, an unceasing and inharmonious 

 hum tells of the sea idly shouldering the orange-hued 

 sands outside. 



The original inhabitants of the country knew the 

 stream as Marang. None call it so; but half stranded 

 on the bank at the mouth lies a raft typical of the past, 

 and of the ease and resource with which those of the 



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