glinting, pattering, laving. Some go to the high snowy fountains to
swell their well-saved stores; some into the lakes, washing the mountain
windows, patting their smooth glassy levels, making dimples and bubbles
and spray; some into the waterfalls and cascades, as if eager to join in
their dance and song and beat their foam yet finer; good luck and good
work for the happy mountain raindrops, each one of them a high waterfall
in itself, descending from the cliffs and hollows of the clouds to the
cliffs and hollows of the rocks, out of the sky-thunder into the thunder
of the falling rivers. Some, falling on meadows and bogs, creep silently
out of sight to the grass roots, hiding softly as in a nest, slipping,
oozing hither, thither, seeking and finding their appointed work. Some,
descending through the spires of the woods, sift spray through the
shining needles, whispering peace and good cheer to each one of them.
Some drops with happy aim glint on the sides of crystals,--quartz,
hornblende, garnet, zircon, tourmaline, feldspar,--patter on grains of
gold and heavy way-worn nuggets; some, with blunt plap-plap and low bass
drumming, fall on the broad leaves of veratrum, saxifrage, cypripedium.
Some happy drops fall straight into the cups of flowers, kissing the
lips of lilies. How far they have to go, how many cups to fill, great
and small, cells too small to be seen, cups holding half a drop as well
as lake basins between the hills, each replenished with equal care,
every drop in all the blessed throng a silvery newborn star with lake
and river, garden and grove, valley and mountain, all that the landscape
holds reflected in its crystal depths, God's messenger, angel of love
sent on its way with majesty and pomp and display of power that make
man's greatest shows ridiculous.

Now the storm is over, the sky is clear, the last rolling thunder-wave
is spent on the peaks, and where are the raindrops now--what has become
of all the shining throng? In winged vapor rising some are already
hastening back to the sky, some have gone into the plants, creeping
through invisible doors into the round rooms of cells, some are locked
in crystals of ice, some in rock crystals, some in porous moraines to
keep their small springs flowing, some have gone journeying on in the
rivers to join the larger raindrop of the ocean. From form to form,
beauty to beauty, ever changing, never resting, all are speeding on with
love's enthusiasm, singing w