And yet you have only skimmed
the beautiful river's surface as a swallow skims a lake.
Try a punt once.
Pole in and out of the little back waters, lying away from the river,
smothered in trees; float over the shallows dotted with pond-lilies;
creep under drooping branches swaying with the current; stop at any one
of a hundred landings, draw your boat up on the gravel, spring out and
plunge into the thickets, flushing the blackbirds from their nests, or
unpack your luncheon, spread your mattress, and watch the clouds sail
over your head. Don't be in a hurry. Keep up this idling day in and day
out, up and down, over and across, for a month or more, and you will get
some faint idea of how picturesque, how lovely, and how restful this
rarest of all the sylvan streams of England can be.
If, like me, you can't pole a punt its length without running into a
mud-bank or afoul of the bushes, then send for Fin. If he isn't at
Sonning you will hear of him at Cookham or Marlowe or London--but find
him wherever he is.
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