Off the
main flood lie creeks where the oaks dip their branches in the high
tides, where the stars are glassed all night long without a ripple,
and where you may spend whole days with no company but herons and
sandpipers:
Helford River, Helford River,
Blessed may you be!
We sailed up Helford River
By Durgan from the sea. . . .
And about three-quarters of a mile above the ferry-crossing (where is
the best anchorage) you will find the entrance of the creek they call
Frenchman's, with a cob-built ruin beside it, and perhaps, if you
come upon it in the morning sunlight, ten or a dozen herons aligned
like statues on the dismantled walls.
Now, why they call it Frenchman's Creek no one is supposed to know,
but this story will explain. And the story I heard on the spot from
an old verderer, who had it from his grandfather, who bore no
unimportant part in it--as will be seen. Maybe you will find it out
of keeping with its scenery. In my own words you certainly would:
and so I propose to relate it just as the verderer told it to me.
I.
First of all you'll let me say that a bad temper is an affliction,
whoever owns it, and shortening to life.
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