THE RIVER 



Thus, the sea sends its denizens past the vast 

 multitude that surges over the City bridges, and 

 the last link with the olden time, the otter, still 

 endeavours to live near. 



Perhaps the river is sweetest to look on in spring- 

 time or early summer. Seen from a distance the 

 water seems at first sight, when the broad stream 

 fills the vision as a whole, to flow with smooth, 

 even current between meadow and cornfield. But, 

 coming to the brink, that silvery surface now ap- 

 pears exquisitely chased with ever-changing lines. 

 The light airs, wandering to and fro where high 

 banks exclude the direct influence of the breeze, 

 flutter the ripples hither and thither, so that, instead 

 of rolling upon one lee shore, they meet and expend 

 their little force upon each other. A continuous 

 rising and falling, without a line of direction, thus 

 breaks up the light, not with sparkle or glitter, but 

 with endless silvery facets. 



There is no pattern. The apparently inter- 

 tangled tracing on a work of art presently resolves 

 itself into a design, which once seen is always the 

 same. These wavelets form no design ; watch the 

 sheeny maze as long as one will, the eye cannot 

 get at the clue, and so unwind the pattern. 



Each seems for a second exactly like its fellow, 

 but varies while you say " These two are the 

 same," and the white reflected light upon the wide 

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