OUTDOORS 



runs breathlessly to the great hills, noiselessly 

 passes the woods and hollows, and leaps with 

 shadowy flight to the prairies. Echoless it 

 traverses all space before it. 



But the river is singing' as it gallops down 

 the rocky reaches and out over pebbled shal- 

 lows, and its song is as varied as the never- 

 ending change of season and circumstance. 

 There is a perfect liquid babble of laughing 

 gossip across the shingly bars, and a whisper- 

 ing of stealthy secrets to the reeds along the 

 island sedges. Where the hills hang over the 

 water there are deeper echoes; and a long 

 wash of spent ripples flows on the steadfast 

 barriers that sink their foundations in the riv- 

 er's flow. There are trebles and minor tones 

 in many keys; and now and then, where a 

 town's steeples whiten the blue and the chim- 

 neys of factories send curling smoke-wreaths 

 aloft, there is an organ roll of prisoned wa- 

 ters the roar of mill-race and sluice-vexed 

 currents, the fretting of the river in its chains. 



Here now, as we pass, is a country post- 

 office. It is a weather-beaten little building 

 with a block in front of it to aid people in 

 mounting their horses, and a long pole sup- 

 88 



