low-bushes,
that the bright yellow flowers may emerge from the shadow.

The river itself, the broad stream, ample and full, exhibits all its
glory in this reach; from One Tree to the Lock it is nearly straight,
and the river itself is everything. Between wooded hills, or where
divided by numerous islets, or where trees and hedges enclose the view,
the stream is but part of the scene. Here it is all. The long raised
bank without a hedge or fence, with the cornfields on its level, simply
guides the eye to the water. Those who are afloat upon it insensibly
yield to the influence of the open expanse.

The boat whose varnished sides but now slipped so gently that the
cutwater did not even raise a wavelet, and every black rivet-head was
visible as a line of dots, begins to forge ahead. The oars are dipped
farther back, and as the blade feels the water holding it in the hollow,
the lissom wood bends to its work. Before the cutwater a wave rises,
and, repulsed, rushes outwards. At each stroke, as the weight swings
towards the prow, there is just the least faint depression at its stem
as the boat travels. Whirlpool after whirlpool glides from the oars,
revolving to the rear with a threefold motion, round and round,
backwards and outwards. The crew impart their own life to their boat;
the animate and inanimate become as one, the boat is no longer wooden
but alive.

If there be a breeze a fleet of white sails comes round the
willow-hidden bend. But the Thames yachtsmen have no slight difficulties
to contend with. The capricious wind is nowhere so thoroughly capricious
as on the upper river. Along one mile there may be a spanking breeze,
the very next is calm, or with a fitful puff coming over a high hedge,
which flutters his pennant, but does not so much as shake the sail. Even
in the same mile the wind may take the water on one side, and scarcely
move a leaf on the other. But the current is always there, and the
vessel is certain to drift.

When at last a good opportunity is obtained, just as the boat heels
over, and the rushing bubbles at the prow resound, she must be put
about, and the napping foresail almost brushes the osiers. If she does
not come round--if the movement has been put off a moment too long--the
keel grates, and she is aground immediately. It is nothing but tacking,
tacking, tacking--a kind of stitching the stream.

Nor can one always choose the best day for the purpose; the exigencies
of business, perhaps