Blogs and book

One afternoon,
I made Powell's boat out, heading into the shore. By the time I got
close to the mud-flat his craft had disappeared inland. But I could see
the mouth of the creek by then. The tide being on the turn I took the
risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to
guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small building. I got
in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set some time
before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy
banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly
still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and disappeared
in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the building
the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small
barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and
supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the
falling dusk, and I could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart-
track stretching over the marsh towards the higher land, far away.


Pages:
376 377 378 379 380 381 382 383 384 385 386 387 388 389 390 391 392 393 394 395 396 397 398 399 400