You might think it's an afternoon's read, but as great humour should be, you'll discover this book touches on some common experiences that will remind us how human we all are, how much we are all the same and how ridiculous we all (sometimes:) are.
It's interesting how a funny, appearently easy book can contain such eloquently beautiful passages...
”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.
From the dim woods
on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey shadows, creep out with
noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear- guard of the light, and pass,
with noiseless, unseen feet, above the waving river-grass, and through the sighing
rushes; and Night, upon her sombre throne, folds her black wings above the
darkening world, and, from her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in
stillness.
Then we run our
little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched, and the frugal supper
cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant
chat goes round in musical undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river,
playing round the boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the
old child's song that it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many
thousand years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we,
who have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell you in
mere words the story that we listen to.
And we sit there,
by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops down to kiss it with a
sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms around it clingingly; and we watch it
as it flows, ever singing, ever whispering, out to meet its king, the sea -
till our voices die away in silence, and the pipes go out - till we,
common-place, everyday young men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half
sad, half sweet, and do not care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising,
knock the ashes from our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and,
lulled by the lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the
great, still stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet
as she used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair
face, ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweet
as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us, her
children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of painted civilization had lured
us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us
ashamed of the simple life we led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind
was born so many thousands years ago.”
