again on
the wild grass--soothed by the fragrance of the Mayapple and the
violets, and the touch of the night-wind... How still it is ... and The
River doesn't seem to sound so loud when your head's on the ground--and
your eyes are closed--and you're listening to the far, far, far-off
lullaby of tumbling waters--and you're a bit tired, Perhaps ... a bit
tired....

* * * * *

The Winter Stream

Somehow The River never terrified me.

(It did mother, however!)

Perhaps it brought no fear to me because it flowed so gently and so
helpfully through such a wonderful valley of Peace and Plenty. Even in
its austere winter aspect, with its tree-banks bare of leaves and its
snow-and-ice-bound setting, it rejoiced me.

Teams of big horses and wagons and scores of men, worked busily upon
its frozen surface, sawing and cutting and packing ice in the big
wooden houses along the banks.

Always there was enough wind for an ice-boat or a skate-sail, or to
send a fellow swiftly along when mother-made promises were forgotten
and an unbuttoned coat was held outstretched to catch the breeze.

At night the torches and bonfires flickered and glowed where the
skaters sent the merry noises of their revelry afloat through the crisp
air as they dodged steel-footed in and out among the huts of the winter
fishermen.

Perhaps I loved the winter river because I knew that beneath its
forbidding surface there was the life of my loved lilies, and because I
knew that all in good time the real river--our river--would be restored
to us again, alive and joyous and unchanged.

One day, when first the tiny rivulets started to run from the bottom of
the snow-drifts, The River suddenly unloosed its artillery and the
crisp air reechoed with the booming that proclaimed the breaking-up of
the ice. Great crowds of people thronged the banks, wondering if the
bridge would go out or would stand the strain of pounding icecakes. The
unmistakable note of a robin sounded from somewhere. Great dark spots
began to show in the white ice-ribbon that wound through the valley.
The air at sundown had lost its sting.

So day by day the breaking-up continued until at last the blessed
stream was clear--the bass jumped hungry to the fly--the daffodils and
violets sprang from beneath their wet leaf-blankets--and all the world
joined the birds in one grand song of emancipation and joy.

* * * * *

The Big Bend