YULE-TIDE KEVERIES. 143 



I go down to the brook which, in the course of 

 centuries, has carved out the hroad valley to my 

 right go down and hear the silence broken by 

 the gurgling murmur of its moving waters. 

 Here and there the brook meanders, its waters 

 ever flowing toward some unknown goal which, 

 thousands of miles beyond, awaits with eager 

 bosom their oncoming. The life of man is often 

 a meandering brook, with no settled purpose, no 

 fixed goal in sight. On and on its gurgling 

 waters its days and nights do move; now 

 storm torn and wind beaten, again calm and 

 peaceful as a summer's noon, yet ever flowing on 

 to that unknown goal which lies beyond, he 

 knows not where. 



Along this peaceful flowing stream are few 

 signs of life this Christmas day. Only in the 

 deeper pools do minnows abide. Here and there 

 a mink or a muskrat travels by night, or per- 

 haps a raccoon, hard put to it for a winter bite. 

 Yet the rippling water murmurs as sweetly, as 

 cheerily, as it did in June-time, when life and 

 love and content did dwell on every side along 

 its crooked course. 



