I have found joy by the side of many English rivers, from the wilder--and yet only a little wild, though they seem torrents by the side of most of their quiet, silent brothers of the south--streams of Yorkshire to the gently-stealing rivulets of Kent, and it would be a puzzle to say which English river is the most charming until one remembers the Thames, in which can be found an epitome of all river delight, from its estuary all along its winding course past London, Richmond, Hampton, Windsor, Maidenhead, Henley, Goring, Didcot, Oxford, and beyond Oxford until it turns south and south-west to find its source under the hills which bound the valley of the Avon. There is no joy of forest, or park, or lawn, or garden, or meadow that may not be had by the banks of the Thames; and those banks are decorated with more noble mansions and sweet homes than are the banks of any river in the world. To watch in the valley of the Thames the oncoming of Spring is a pageant of dear delights. Dobell thus gives his impression of the Spring march of the flowers:-- First came the primrose On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below: So looked she, And saw the storms go by. Then came the wind-flower, In the valley left behind As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by, Wanders to and fro: So totter'd she Dishevell'd in the wind. Then came the daisies On the first of May, Like a banner'd show's advance, While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields, As a happy people come, When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday. On a Spring day let us go out from London to do honour to the Thames, seeking its nearer delights. Because it is Spring the day is delightful. The English seasons are often disappointing. The summer is not as good, winter not as bad as one has had reason to anticipate. One often at the end of the year has neither revelled in a fine summer nor felt the happiness of heroism in enduring a rigorous winter; for there has been no spell of really fine weather and no rigours. Always the climate has been soft and apologetic. But Spring in England is ever delicious. The first awakening of the year is brimful of stirring delights. Perhaps the summer has been "unsatisfactory," one of these cold, damp summers which drift unaware into autumn; and autumn, though providing a few perfect days, has been generally overcast, and every day has threatened the winter. But the winter has never come at all in any real earnest. No snow, no big freeze for skating, just dull half-cold days with occasional hours as warm as though stolen from autumn. Nature goes to sleep grudgingly, but goes to sleep; taking off all her draperies of green and brown and gold.