374 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



the first of November. But the river rises as inexor- 

 ably after the rain as while it was falling, and every 

 drop that falls in three thousand square miles comes 

 net to our half-mile valley. In the mystery of dusk 

 each burble of the river speaks like the snarl of a 

 fresh conquest. The night mist magnifies the evil by 

 taking away the bounds between land and water. 

 It soaks the whole world in one watery dissolution. 

 All the trees stand in a white sheet that may be land 

 or flood. Cottage lights are reflected in a red gleam 

 of ripples, or a red gleam of wet earth, or stagger 

 through a red wool of suspended vapour. We know 

 that all the sluices are open, that all the weirs still 

 ripple, but it seems as though nothing would ever 

 drain our river back into its channel. 



