By Willian Somerset Maugham河之歌
   
    You hear it all along the river.You hear it,loud and strong,from the rowers as they urge the junk with its high stem,the mast lashed alongside,down the swift running stream.You hear it from the trackers,a more breathless chant,as they pull desperately against the current,half a dozen of them perhaps if they are taking up a sampan,a couple of hundred if they are hauling a splendid junk,its square sail set,over a repid.On the junk a man stands amidships beating a drum incressantly to guide their eforts,and they pull with all their strengh,like men possessed,bent double;and somethimes in the extremity of their travail they crawl on the ground,on all fours,like the beasts of the field.They straun ,straun fiercely,against the pitiless might of the stream.The leader goes up and down the line and when he sees one who is not putting all his will into the task he brings down his split bamboo on the naked back.Each one must do his utmost or the labour of all is vain.And still they sing a vehement,eager chant,the chant of the turbulent waters.I do not know how words can describe what there is in it of effort.It serves to express the straining heart,the breaking muscles,and at the same time the indomitable spirit of man which overcomes the pitiless force of nature.Though the rope may part and the great junk swing back,in the end the rapid will be passed;and at the close o the weary day there is the hearty meal.

    Life is too hard,too cruel,and this is final despairing protest.That is the song of the river.