it
looks! Yet well we know the sunken log upon its farther side. We
have festooned it full oft with a big hook and hempen line. And
from that pool how many fatuous fishes have we not hauled forth.
Here we came often, when we were boys; and once did not certain
bold souls sleep here all night, curled up along the bank,
waking the next morning, each with a sore throat, 'tis true, but
with heart full proud at such high deed of valor!

And there is the long wooden bridge. What a feat of engineering
that bridge once seemed to our untraveled souls! Behold it now,
as it was then, lying in the level rays of the rising moon,
a brilliant causeway leading over into a land of mystery, to
glory, perhaps; perhaps to failure, forgetfulness, oblivion and
rest. And there, I declare, at the other end of this great
roadway--swimming up, I declare, in the same old way--is the
great round moon whose light served us when we stayed late at
the dam in the summer evenings. And the shadows of the bridge
timbers are just as long and black; and the ripples over the
rocks at the middle span are just as beautiful and white. And
here, right at our feet again, the moon is playing its old
tricks of painting faces in the water....

There are too many faces in the water, Singing Mouse; and I beg
you, cease repeating the words about the _Corpus Delicti_! You
would make one shudder. Let us look no more at the faces in the
water.

[Illustration]

But still you bide by the waters tonight, wizard; for here is
a picture of the sea. It is the sea, and it is talking, as it
always does. There are some who think the sea speaks only
of sorrow, but this is not wholly true. If you will listen
thoughtfully enough, you will find that it is not all of
troubles that the sea is whispering. Nor does it speak always
of restlessness and change. Some find a stimulus beside the
sea, and say it brings forgetfulness. Rather let us call it
exaltation. Much more than of a petty excitement, fit to blot a
man's momentary woes, it speaks in a sterner and a stronger
note. It throbs with the pulse of a further shore. It speaks of
a quiet tide making out to the Fortunate Islands, and tells of a
way of following gales, and of a new Atlantis, somewhere on
beyond. How dear this dream of a different land, this story of
Atlantis, pathetically sought! Certainly, Atlantis is there, out
beyond, somewhere in the sea; and truly there are those who have
discovered it, and those who stil