THE RIVER 



canoes, solitary scullers in outriggers, once now 

 and then a swift eight, launches, a bargee in a tub- 

 like dingy standing up and pushing his sculls in- 

 stead of pulling ; gentlemen, with their shoulders in 

 a halter, hauling like horses and towing fair freights 

 against the current ; and punts poled across to 

 shady nooks. The splashing of oars, the staccato 

 sound as a blade feathered too low meets the 

 wavelets, merry voices sometimes a song, and 

 always a low undertone, which, as the wind accel- 

 erates it, rises to a roar. It is the last leap of the 

 river to the sea ; the last weir to whose piles 

 the tide rises. On the bank of the weir where 

 the tide must moisten their roots grow dense 

 masses of willow-herb, almost as high as the 

 shoulder, with trumpet-shaped pink flowers. 



Let us go back again to the bank by the corn- 

 fields, with the glorious open stretch of stream. 

 In the evening, the rosy or golden hues of the sun- 

 set will be reflected on the surface from the clouds ; 

 then the bats wheel to and fro, and once now and 

 then a nighthawk will throw himself through the 

 air with uncertain flight, his motions scarcely to 

 be followed, as darkness falls. Am I mistaken, or 

 are kingfishers less numerous than they were only 

 a few seasons since ? Then I saw them, now I 

 do not. Long-continued and severe frosts are very 

 fatal to these birds ; they die on the perch. 

 J53 



