hey can get it; and, failing that, you will find them sitting
on the edge of a quay or embankment, with their feet hanging over the
water. What a piquant mingling of indolence and vivacity you can enjoy
by the river-side! The best point of view in Rome, to my taste, is the
Ponte San Angelo; and in Florence or Pisa I never tire of loafing along
the Lung' Arno. You do not know London until you have seen it from
the Thames. And you will miss the charm of Cambridge unless you take
a little boat and go drifting on the placid Cam, beneath the bending
trees, along the backs of the colleges.

But the real way to know a little river is not to glance at it here or
there in the course of a hasty journey, nor to become acquainted with it
after it has been partly civilised and spoiled by too close contact with
the works of man. You must go to its native haunts; you must see it in
youth and freedom; you must accommodate yourself to its pace, and give
yourself to its influence, and follow its meanderings whithersoever they
may lead you.

Now, of this pleasant pastime there are three principal forms. You may
go as a walker, taking the river-side path, or making a way for yourself
through the tangled thickets or across the open meadows. You may go as
a sailor, launching your light canoe on the swift current and
committing yourself for a day, or a week, or a month, to the delightful
uncertainties of a voyage through the forest. You may go as a wader,
stepping into the stream and going down with it, through rapids and
shallows and deeper pools, until you come to the end of your courage and
the daylight. Of these three ways I know not which is best. But in all
of them the essential thing is that you must be willing and glad to be
led; you must take the little river for your guide, philosopher, and
friend.

And what a good guidance it gives you. How cheerfully it lures you on
into the secrets of field and wood, and brings you acquainted with the
birds and the flowers. The stream can show you, better than any other
teacher, how nature works her enchantments with colour and music.

Go out to the Beaver-kill

"In the tassel-time of spring,"

and follow its brimming waters through the budding forests, to that
corner which we call the Painter's Camp. See how the banks are all
enamelled with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium, and the delicate
pink-veined spring beauty. A little later in the year, when the ferns
are uncurling the