THE MODERN THAMES. 119 



thousand thousand bubbles rising to the surface would 

 whiten the stream — a thousand thousand succeeded 

 by another thousand thousand — and still flowing, no 

 multiple could express the endless number. That 

 which flows continuously by some sympathy is ac- 

 ceptable to the mind, as if thereby it realised its own 

 existence without an end. Swallows would skim the 

 water to and fro as yachts tack, the sandpiper would 

 run along the strand, a black-headed bunting would 

 perch upon the willow ; perhaps, as the man of genius 

 fishing and myself made no noise, a kingfisher might 

 come, and we might see him take his prey. 



Or I might quit hold of the osier and, entering a 

 shallow backwater, disturb shoals of roach playing 

 where the water was transparent to the bottom, after 

 their wont. Winding in and out like an Indian in his 

 canoe, perhaps traces of an otter might be found — his 

 kitchen modding — and in the sedges moorhens and 

 wildfowl would hide from me. From its banks I should 

 gather many a flower and notice many a plant, there 

 would be, too, the beautiful water-lily. Or I should 

 row on up the great stream by meadows full of golden 

 buttercups, past fields crimson with trifolium or green 

 with young wheat. Handsome sailing craft would 

 come down spanking before the breeze, laden with 

 bright girls — laughter on board, and love the golden 

 fleece of their argosy. 



I should converse with the ancient • men of the 

 ferries, and listen to their river lore; they would 

 show me the mark to which the stream rose in 

 the famous year of floods. On again to the cool 

 hostelry whose sign was reflected in the water, where 



