There is not a brook, or the mark of a watercourse, in one of them.

You are like the Ancient Mariner in the poem, with "Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink." To get that you must go down and down, hundreds of feet, to the green meadows through which silver Itchen glides toward the sea.

There you stand upon the bridge, and watch the trout in water so crystal-clear that you see every weed and pebble as if you looked through air.

If ever there was pure water, you think, that is pure.

Is it so?
Drink some.
Wash your hands in it and try--You feel that the water is rough, hard (as they call it), quite different from the water at home, which feels as soft as velvet.