Here the river, shut in on the one side with budding trees to the water's edge, on the other with bracken and patches of ploughed land to where the cliffs broke sheer away, stretched for some miles without bend or break. Far ahead a blue bank of woodland closed the view. Not a sound disturbed the stillness, not a sail broke the placid expanse of water.
But a true Trojan must still be talking. Presently Caleb resumed.
"'Tes a luvly spot, as you said, sir. Mr. Moggridge down at the customs—he's a poet, as maybe you know—has written a mint o' verses about this 'ere place. 'Natur', he says:—"
"Natur' has 'ere assoomed her softest garb;
'Ere would I live an' die
"Natur' has 'ere assoomed her softest garb;
'Ere would I live an' die
"—which I calls a very touchin' sentiment, an' like what they says in a nigger song."
With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms. On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was curling up from among the dense woodland.
Caleb headed the boat for this smoke, ran her nose on the pebbles beneath a low cliff, and stepped out.
"'Ere we are, sir."
"But I don't see any house," said Mr. Fogo, perplexed.