Above the town, just beyond the red iron bridge, the river made a great
bend and widened into a lake where the banks were willow-grown, and
reeds and rushes and grasses and lily-pads pushed far out into
mid-stream, leaving only a narrow channel of clear water.

To the Big Bend our canoe glided often, paddling lazily along and going
far up-stream to drift back with the current.

Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached deep beneath the surface to
bring up the long-stemmed water-lilies--the great white blossoms, and
the queer little yellow-and-black ones.

Like a blight-eyed sprite the tiny marsh-wren flitted among the rushes,
and the musk-rat built strange reed-castles at the water's edge.

The lace-winged dragon-fly following our boat darted from side to side,
or poised in air, or alighted on the dripping blade of our paddle when
it rested for a moment across our knees.

Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird melodies which only
Boyhood could interpret.

In this place The River sang its love-songs, and sent forth an
answering note to the vast harmonious blending of blue sky and golden
day and incense-heavy air and the glad songs of birds.

And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed to be the self-same
river of the old, loved hymn we sang so often in the Little Church With
The White Steeple--that river which "flows by the throne of God";
fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing
"peace ... like a river, and glory ... like a flowing stream."

Christmas

We always used grandmother's stocking--because it was the biggest one
in the family, much larger than mother's, and somehow it seemed able to
stretch more than hers. There was so much room in the foot, too--a
chance for all sorts of packages.

There was a carpet-covered couch against the flowered wall in one
corner of the parlor. Between the foot of it and the chimney, was the
door into our bedroom. I always hung my stocking at the side of the
door nearest the couch, on the theory, well-defined in my mind with
each recurring Christmas, that if by any chance Santa Claus brought me
more than he could get into the stocking, he could pile the overflow on
the couch. And he always did!

It may seem strange that a lad who seldom heard even the third
getting-up call in the morning should have awakened without any calling
once a year--or that his red-night-gowned figure should have leaped
from the depths of his feath