It grew but more fresh and
fair as the sun got lower. Then, in a place where the river
seemed to come to an end, the _Pipe of Peace_ drew close, in
under the western shore, to a landing. Buildings of grey stone
clustered and looked over the bank. Close under the bank's
green fringes a little boat-house and large clean wooden pier
received us; from the landing a road went steeply sloping up.
I see it all now in the colours which clothed it then. I think
I entered fairyland when I touched foot to shore. Even down at
the landing, everything was clean and fresh and in order. The
green branches of that thick fringe which reached to the top
of the bank had no dust on them; the rocks were parti-coloured
with lichens; the river was bright, flowing and rippling past;
the _Pipe of Peace_ had pushed off and sped on, and in another
minute or two was turning the point, and then — out of sight.
Stillness seemed to fill the woods and the air as the beat of
her paddles was lost. I breathed stillness. New York was fifty
miles away, physically and morally at the antipodes.
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