336 NATURE-STUDY REVIEW [13:8— Nov., 1917 



night it is small wonder that daylight visitors find them so im- 

 sociable. 



It is strange, this instinct of building. The caterpillar that 

 weaves a silken shroud about him and lies down to undergo mys- 

 terious changes that bring him forth again an altogether different 

 being cannot be thought to reason out his destiny. But is it only 

 blind instinct that impels the building of a dam which shall lock 

 up a small stream, and by making a deeper body of water ensure 

 protection from the icy prisons of winter; that selects a floating 

 island in preference to a shore, because it will not freeze so far 

 underneath? Is it only a blind impulse that teaches an animal 

 to gnaw down a tree at the base in order to get for food the branches 

 that are far out of his reach ? If we were to find evidences of these 

 same activities in some prehistoric race of men, we would not think 

 to call it instinct, but rather a high degree of reasoning. 



The Brook and I 



"Throughout the year a brook is captivating. It is as companionable as a 

 child, and as changeful. It hints at mysteries. But does it tell secrets other 

 than its own? Does it tell where the wild things come down to drink? Does 

 it tell where the birds take their baths, or where the choicest wild flowers 

 lurk? I fain would know the story of its playfellows and dependents. 



The brook has made its own way down the hill, through the woods and 

 across the meadow. May we not follow it? Is it not a type of the best kind 

 of human life? — the steep hillside of youth, the wild dash, the splashing 

 through and under and between difficulties, the firm, steady flow down the 

 gradual slope of middle age, — finally the safe and tranquil passing into the 

 unknown? 



And yet, in spite of its mysteries, one may really know a brook. A river 

 is too distant, — too much an institution and too little an individual. A brook 

 comes to play in one's yard. It is neighborly. It invites confidences. It 

 reflects our smiles and our tears with the same calm surface. 



Nor is the brook always idle. The brook practical may typify a more useful 

 life than the brook romantic. It may be both. So, too, may we. If the 

 stream goes on merrily below the mill, may not we, too, do an honest day's 

 work and keep moderately cheerful? I would that I might be like a mountain 

 brook, never stagnant, never vanquished by obstacles. That I might do 

 my task and be ready to play when it is finished. That I might hurry through 

 all uncleanness, absorbing none. And that I might give myself to the future 



with perfect confidence and peace." Mary Rogers Miller (Preface to 



The Brook, Doubleday Page 8c Co.) 



