THE RIVER 



bends to its work. Before the cutwater a wave 

 rises, and, repulsed, rushes outwards. At each 

 stroke, as the weight swings towards the prow, 

 there is just the least faint depression at its stem as 

 the boat travels. Whirlpool after whirlpool glides 

 from the oars, revolving to the rear with a three- 

 fold motion, round and round, backwards and 

 outwards. The crew impart their own life to 

 their boat; the animate and inanimate become as 

 one, the boat is no longer wooden but alive. 



If there be a breeze a fleet of white sails comes 

 round the willow-hidden bend. But the Thames 

 yachtsmen have no slight difficulties to contend 

 with. The capricious wind is nowhere so thor- 

 oughly capricious as on the upper river. Along 

 one mile there may be a spanking breeze, the very 

 next is calm, or with a fitful puff coming over a 

 high hedge, which flutters his pennant, but does 

 not so much as shake the sail. Even in the same 

 mile the wind may take the water on one side, and 

 scarcely move a leaf on the other. But the current 

 is always there, and the vessel is certain to drift. 



When at last a good opportunity is obtained, 

 just as the boat heels over, and the rushing bubbles 

 at the prow resound, she must be put about, and 

 the flapping foresail almost brushes the osiers. If 

 she does not come round if the movement has 

 been put off a moment too long the keel grates, 

 151 



