Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog)

Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased their song, and only the moorhen’s plaintive cry and the harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the dying day breathes out her last.

Throw the lum­ber over, man! Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need—a homely home and simple pleas­ures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dan­ger­ous thing.

Har­ris had the beef­steak pie between his knees, and was carving it, and Ge­orge and I were wait­ing with our plates ready.
“Have you got a spoon there?” says Har­ris; “I want a spoon to help the gravy with.”
The hamper was close be­hind us, and Ge­orge and I both turned round to reach one out. We were not five seconds get­ting it. When we looked round again, Har­ris and the pie were gone!
It was a wide, open field. There was not a tree or a bit of hedge for hun­dreds of yards. He could not have tumbled into the river, be­cause we were on the wa­ter side of him, and he would have had to climb over us to do it.
Ge­orge and I gazed all about. Then we gazed at each other.
“Has he been snatched up to heaven?” I quer­ied.
“They’d hardly have taken the pie too,” said Ge­orge.
There seemed weight in this ob­jec­tion, and we dis­carded the heav­enly the­ory.

It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes.

un­ob­trus­ive

had fits of gid­di­ness

feel­ing seedy

Cure for liver com­plaint in chil­dren

pre­scrip­tion

everybody is always so exceptionally irritable on the river. Little mishaps, that you would hardly notice on dry land, drive you nearly frantic with rage, when they occur on the water