are others moored in various
places, and all hard at work. The men in this one, scarcely glancing at
my idle skiff, go steadily on, dropping the scoop, steadying the pole,
turning the crank, and emptying the pebbles with a rattle.

Where do these pebbles come from? Like the stream itself there seems a
continual supply; if a bank be scooped away and punted to the shore
presently another bank forms. If a hollow be deepened, by-and-by it
fills up; if a channel be opened, after a while it shallows again. The
stony current flows along below, as the liquid current above. Yet in so
many centuries the strand has not been cleared of its gravel, nor has it
all been washed out from the banks.

The skiff drifts again, at first slowly, till the current takes hold of
it and bears it onward. Soon it is evident that a barge-port is near--a
haven where barges discharge their cargoes. A by-way leads down to the
river where boats are lying for hire--a dozen narrow punts, waiting at
this anchorage till groundbait be lawful. The ends of varnished skiffs,
high and dry, are visible in a shed carefully covered with canvas; while
sheaves of oars and sculls lean against the wooden wall.

Through the open doors of another shed there may be had a glimpse of
shavings and tools, and slight battens crossing the workshop in apparent
confusion, forming a curious framework. These are the boatbuilder's
struts and stays, and contrivances to keep the boat in rigid position,
that her lines may be true and delicate, strake upon strake of dull red
mahogany rising from the beechen keel, for the craftsman strings his
boat almost as a violinist strings his violin, with the greatest care
and heed, and with a right adjustment of curve and due proportion. There
is not much clinking, or sawing, or thumping; little noise, but much
skill.

Gradually the scene opens. Far down a white bridge spans the river: on
the shore red-tiled and gabled houses crowd to the very edge; and behind
them a church tower stands out clear against the sky. There are barges
everywhere. By the towing-path colliers are waiting to be drawn up
stream, black as their freight, by the horses that are nibbling the
hawthorn hedge; while by the wharf, labourers are wheeling barrows over
bending planks from the barges to the carts upon the shore. A tug comes
under the bridge, panting, every puff re-echoed from the arches,
dragging by sheer force deeply laden flats behind it. The water in front
of t