THREE ME 13 * TUB 



long delayed settles down at length upon the sleepers 

 whose hard-won rest is unbroken by the rush of the 

 weir, the song of the sedge-bird in the reeds across the 

 river, or the cries of wild fowl abroad under cover of the 

 darkness. 



The morning is bright and promising too bright, the 

 ancient mariner says, who throws the painter into the 

 bow and pushes you off. But you make light of his 

 warnings. You still have faith in St. Swithin. You 

 mean to have a good time of it. 



It is a very crowd of butterflies that the sun has 

 tempted out. 'Varsity men in fearful and wonderful 

 get up though not always quite successful in the hand- 

 ling of their sculls are assisted by admiring crews of 

 " their sisters and their cousins and their " well, no, on 

 reflection, perhaps they draw the line at "aunts" in 

 all the splendour of the rainbow. 



But, alas ! the clouds gather darkly from the south- 

 ward. It is not long before the croak of the ancient 

 mariner seems likely to prove well-founded. A few 

 large drops patter ominously among the willows by the 

 shore. The drops become a shower, the shower becomes 

 a pelt. Well now for those who have loitered among 

 the lilies, have stopped to explore the backwaters, have 

 no lock to wait for, and are back before the rain has 

 settled to its work in earnest. 



It is some compensation for the unwelcome interruption 

 of the storm to watch from the safe shelter of the inn 

 the half-drowned boatloads pulling for the shore. Some 

 are far up the river. The willows, whose grey leaves 



