VII 



AN OUTLOOK ON WINTER 



IN the bottom of the valley is a brook that saun- 

 ters between oozing banks. It falls over stones and 

 dips under fences. It marks an open place on the 

 face of the earth, and the trees and soft herbs bend 

 their branches into the sunlight. The hang-bird 

 swings her nest over it. Mossy logs are crumbling 

 into it. There are still pools where the minnows 

 play. The brook runs away and away into the 

 forest. As a boy I explored it but never found its 

 source. It came somewhere from the Beyond and 

 its name was Mystery. 



The mystery of this brook was its changing 

 moods. It had its own way of recording the passing 

 of the weeks and months. I remember never to 

 have seen it twice in the same mood, nor to have 

 got the same lesson from it on two successive days"; 

 yet, with all its variety, it always left that same 

 feeling of mystery and that same vague longing to 

 follow to its source and to know the great world 

 that I was sure must lie beyond. I felt that the 

 brook was greater and wiser than I. It became my 

 teacher. I wondered how it knew when March 

 came, and why its round of life recurred so 

 regularly with the returning seasons. I remember 

 that I was anxious for the spring to come, that I 



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