Home and Colonia,
Antipodonia-.”
He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own autobiography—almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked it—it paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on.
Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some weeks he had been trying to learn—this river-journey was the testing.
He rounded a bend. Ahead swans sailed placidly. Cattle stood knee-deep in water. In the stream, tethered to a landing, boats swung idly. On a close-cut lawn green tables were set out in the shadow of trees. Everything stood hushed and huddled in the gilded quiet.
He stepped out and strolled up through the trellised garden. Finding no one, he wandered round the inn to the back. From the stable-yard came the splashing that water makes when a brush is plunged into a bucket; then a droning sound, punctuated with the hissing of an ostler. Peter laughed inwardly.
“Whoa there, boy! You ain’t a patch on Cat’s Meat. Call yerself a ‘oss?—- Ah, would yer! Shish-shish-shish.
Oh Peter wuz ‘is nime,
So Peterish wuz ‘e,
‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen