Three Men in a Boat | Page 8

couch of waters, where the
dying day breathes out her last.
From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey
shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering
rear- guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the
waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her
sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and,
from her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched,
and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled
and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical undertone;
while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the boat,
prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child's song that
it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many thousand years
to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we, who
have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not
tell you in mere words the story that we listen to.
And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too,
stoops down to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms
around it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever
whispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away in
silence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young
men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do
not care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes
from our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the
lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great,
still stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet
as she used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair
face, ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart -
sweet as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she

nursed us, her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of
painted civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the
poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life
we led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born
so many thousands years ago.
Harris said:
"How about when it rained?"
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wild
yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."
If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been
eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:
"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the
waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by
seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:
"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come along
with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a
drop of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less
than no time."
Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get
something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met Harris
up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would immediately
greet you with:
"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the
corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."
In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his
practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in
rainy weather is not pleasant.

It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches of
water in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on the
banks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and you
land and lug out the tent, and two of you proceed to fix it.
It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down on you,
and clings round your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring
steadily down all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry
weather: in wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead