356 NA T U RE-STUD Y RE VIE W [13 :8— Nov. , 1917 



of great stones, no water in sight except for an occasional pool, 

 which harbors some May-fly larvae ; and here are more lovety ferns 

 protected by those big hemlocks. There is one tree which towers 

 above all the others, and that is of coiirse a white pine. 



After another big culvert we come to a narrow dell. It is very 

 deep, but not nearly as wide as the gorge has been. Along a little 

 way, however, it widens again and is not so deep. There is first a 

 tiny thread of silver at the bottom, our little brook again. 



Now it flows under another road, below which we come to a big 

 amphitheater at least fifty feet deep. Think of the work our little 

 brook must have done some day, to carve out this big hollow ! If 

 there were any other possible way in which it might have been 

 done, I'm afraid you might not believe me when I tell you that the 

 brook did it all. 



The water goes dashing down over the rocks over in the center 

 of the gorge, and forms some waterfalls nearby, thirty feet high, 

 and then settles calmly into a great dam; but when it escapes 

 from the dam it dashes down into another deep and narrow gorge. 

 It must be one hundred and fifty feet deep here, the very deepest 

 we have found yet. 



But soon we come to a wide open valley, with a steep bank on 

 one side, and the other side is very level. All of a sudden what 

 happens to the brook? Yes it has disappeared! Where has it 

 gone ? Under the ground of course ; out of sight down in the gravel 

 finding many secret passages it finally reaches the lagoon and the 

 lake. 



Do you think there was ever a brook which had more things 

 happen to it, or which had nicer neighbors than this one has ? 



Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road. 

 The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode 

 Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height, 

 Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light. 



But not the white wake-robin, nor the star-flower on thy brink, 

 Nor any forest-shrub whose roots from thee refreshment drink, 

 Can need thee with my need, Friend Brook; and never any bird 

 Can thrill such gratitude to thee as my heart chants, unheard. 



Lucy Larcom — from ''Friend Brook. 



