QUIET WATERS 85 



day are wont to avail themselves of Nature's suggestions 

 in the art of crossing flooded waters. The name of the 

 river has gone, but not that of the three buoyant logs 

 lashed together with strips of cane which with sullen 

 lurch, take the wash of the boat. The boys jerk their 

 heads in the direction and murmur "wur-gun," and 

 speculate on the last user. The day is young. For the 

 time being the best the ancient river has to show the 

 quintessence of the season, superb October shall be 

 ours. The cloudless sky is richly blue, lighter in shade 

 than the shapely mountain which seems to block the 

 way miles ahead. The sun gives a taste of its quality, 

 not to fret or discomfort, but merely to add a slightly 

 richer tint to skin glowing with previous marks of his 

 fervour and favour. 



All the sounds of the little engine are maliciously 

 exaggerated as the boat forges ahead. The silent green 

 river has become vociferous with echoes, which snap 

 and grunt, groan and hiss, in mockery of inevitable and 

 earnest doings. Out at sea the merry moods of the 

 boat and hasty and determined throbs of the engine are 

 manifestations of something accomplished in the over- 

 coming of distance. Here it is all mere idle fancy, 

 while the echoes jeer. Surely the uncouth imps of the 

 dimly-lit jungles need not proclaim their spite with such 

 exaggerated fuss. 



With but little effort of imagination the boat becomes 

 stationary on a shining ribbon with strips of dark green 

 on each side, and the banks glide past with never so 

 gentle undulations. The tide screens most of the mud 

 on which the many-rooted trees stand. Some are in 

 full bloom, the hawthorn-like flowers breathing perfume 

 as from an orangery soliciting the raids of millions of 

 bees. Scents cling to the placid surface. It is as a 

 stream of scent, bounded and confined by changeful 



