What charming glimpses you catch from the window as the train winds
along the valley of the French Broad from Asheville, or climbs the
southern Catskills beside the Aesopus, or slides down the Pusterthal
with the Rienz, or follows the Glommen and the Gula from Christiania to
Throndhjem. Here is a mill with its dripping, lazy wheel, the type of
somnolent industry; and there is a white cascade, foaming in silent
pantomime as the train clatters by; and here is a long, still pool with
the cows standing knee-deep in the water and swinging their tails in
calm indifference to the passing world; and there is a lone fisherman
sitting upon a rock, rapt in contemplation of the point of his rod.
For a moment you become a partner of his tranquil enterprise. You turn
around, you crane your neck to get the last sight of his motionless
angle. You do not know what kind of fish he expects to catch, nor what
species of bait he is using, but at least you pray that he may have a
bite before the train swings around the next curve. And if perchance
your wish is granted, and you see him gravely draw some unknown,
reluctant, shining reward of patience from the water, you feel like
swinging your hat from the window and crying out "Good luck!"

Little rivers seem to have the indefinable quality that belongs to
certain people in the world,--the power of drawing attention without
courting it, the faculty of exciting interest by their very presence and
way of doing things.

The most fascinating part of a city or town is that through which the
water flows. Idlers always choose a bridge for their place of meditation
when they can get it; and, failing that, you will find them sitting
on the edge of a quay or embankment, with their feet hanging over the
water. What a piquant mingling of indolence and vivacity you can enjoy