carry me back again to where you await death's whistle by the

river, that will not be the old I who walks the street; and those

wives and mothers, say, will those be you?

There was never any mistake about the Oise, as a matter of fact.

In these upper reaches it was still in a prodigious hurry for the

sea. It ran so fast and merrily, through all the windings of its

channel, that I strained my thumb, fighting with the rapids, and

had to paddle all the rest of the way with one hand turned up.

Sometimes it had to serve mills; and being still a little river,

ran very dry and shallow in the meanwhile. We had to put our legs

out of the boat, and shove ourselves off the sand of the bottom

with our feet. And still it went on its way singing among the

poplars, and making a green valley in the world. After a good

woman, and a good book, and tobacco, there is nothing so agreeable

on earth as a river. I forgave it its attempt on my life; which

was after all one part owing to the unruly winds of heaven that had

blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanagement, and only a

third part to the river itself, and that not out of malice, but

from its great preoccupation over its business of getting to the

sea. A difficult business, too; for the detours it had to make are

not to be counted. The geographers seem to have given up the

attempt; for I found no map represent the infinite contortion of

its course. A fact will say more than any of them. After we had

been some hours, three if I mistake not, flitting by the trees at

this smooth, break-neck gallop, when we came upon a hamlet and

<<BackPagesTo menuNext>>