the least
concern. The woods are deep, we carry our lunch-basket and may roam
independent of taverns. If the wind invite, we can hoist our small sail;
if not, we can recline and drift and stare at the heavens, or land and
bathe, or search in vain for curlews' or kingfishers' nests, or in more
energetic moods seek out a fisherman and hire him to shoot his seine.
Seventy red mullet have I seen fetched at one haul out of those delectable
waters, remote and enchanted as the lake whence the fisherman at the
genie's orders drew fish for the young king of the Black Isles. But such
days as these require no filling, and why should I teach you how to fill
them?

Best hour of all perhaps is that before bed-time, when the awning has been
spread once more, and after long hours in the open our world narrows to
the circle of the reading-lamp in the cockpit. Our cabin is prepared.
Through the open door we see its red curtain warm in the light of the
swinging lamp, the beds laid, the white sheets turned back. Still we
grudge these moments to sleep. Outside we hear the tide streaming
seawards, light airs play beneath the awning, above it rides the host of
heaven. And here, gathered into a few square feet, we have home--larder,
cellar, library, tables, and cupboards; life's small appliances with the
human comradeship they serve, chosen for their service after severely
practical discussion, yet ultimately by the heart's true nesting-instinct.
We are isolated, bound even to this strange river-bed by a few fathoms of
chain only. To-morrow we can lift anchor and spread wing; but we carry
home with us.

"I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night;
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea."

"I will make my kitchen and you shall keep your room
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom;
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night."

You see now what memories we lay up with the boat. Will you think it
ridiculous that after such royal days of summer, her inconspicuous
obsequies have before now put me in mind of Turner's '_Fighting
Temeraire_'? I declare, at any rate, that the fault lies not with me, but
with our country's painters and poets for providing no work of art nearer
to my mood. We English have a great seafaring and a g