hiefly by dudes and ballet girls. It is the
witch's kitchen from which go forth those demons of the
river--steam-launches. The _London Journal_ duke always has his "little
place" at Maidenhead; and the heroine of the three-volume novel always
dines there when she goes out on the spree with somebody else's husband.

[Picture: River scene]

We went through Maidenhead quickly, and then eased up, and took leisurely
that grand reach beyond Boulter's and Cookham locks. Clieveden Woods
still wore their dainty dress of spring, and rose up, from the water's
edge, in one long harmony of blended shades of fairy green. In its
unbroken loveliness this is, perhaps, the sweetest stretch of all the
river, and lingeringly we slowly drew our little boat away from its deep
peace.

We pulled up in the backwater, just below Cookham, and had tea; and, when
we were through the lock, it was evening. A stiffish breeze had sprung
up--in our favour, for a wonder; for, as a rule on the river, the wind is
always dead against you whatever way you go. It is against you in the
morning, when you start for a day's trip, and you pull a long distance,
thinking how easy it will be to come back with the sail. Then, after
tea, the wind veers round, and you have to pull hard in its teeth all the
way home.

When you forget to take the sail at all, then the wind is consistently in
your favour both ways. But there! this world is only a probation, and
man was born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

This evening, however, they had evidently made a mistake, and had put the
wind round at our back instead of in our face. We kept very quiet about
it, and got the sail up quickly before they found it out, and then we
spread ourselves about the boat in thoughtful attitudes, and the sail
bellied out, and strained, and grumbled at the mast, and the boat flew.

I steered.

There is no more thrilling sensation I know of than sailing. It comes as
near to flying as man has got to yet--except in dreams. The wings of the
rushing wind seem to be bearing you onward, you know not where. You are
no longer the slow, plodding, puny thing of clay, creeping tortuously
upon the ground; you are a part of Nature! Your heart is throbbing
against hers! Her glorious arms are round you, raising you up against
her heart! Your spirit is at one with hers; your limbs grow light! The
voices of the air are singing to you. The earth seems far away