AT WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE 21 



dwells apart, unnoticed and wearing no flaunting 

 colors, yet is so dearly fragrant and yields its 

 sweetness most when bruised. 



A stone's toss from the door I found his brook, 

 its music muted by the summer drought so that you 

 must bend the ear close to hear its song. With 

 the foam brimming on its lip in spring the brook 

 roars good fellowship, a stein song in which its 

 brothers over nearby ridges join, filled with the 

 potency which March brews from snow-steeped 

 woods. Now, its March madness long passed, 

 repentant and shriven by the kindly sun, it slips, 

 a pure-souled hermit, from pool to pool, each pool 

 so clear that in it the sky rests content, while 

 water striders mark changing constellations on 

 its surface. The pools are silent, only beneath the 

 stones the passing water chirps to itself a little 

 cheerful song which the vireos in the trees over- 

 head faintly imitate. The trees love the brook's 

 version best, for they bend their heads low to 

 listen to it, beech and maple, white oak and red, 

 yellow birch and white birch and black birch, 

 hemlock and pine, dappling the pools with shade 

 and interlocking arms across the glen in which 



