FIRST VISIT TO STONY BROOK 7 



found our shoes where we had left them, and made 

 our way to the bridge again, only casting now and 

 then a backward glance when a series of dancing 

 waterfalls demanded our attention. 



My memory of that first trip to the brook is as 

 clear as if I had been there but yesterday. Stony 

 Brook is no longer what it used to be. The wood- 

 choppers have claimed its protecting trees, and 

 vandals have despoiled its banks of their fringe of 

 ferns and columbine. The trailing arbutus which 

 once made the hillsides fragrant in early May has 

 been rooted out by thoughtless ones. Jack-in-the- 

 pulpit and wake-robin have been dried out by the 

 sun since the trees, at whose feet they loved to nes- 

 tle, have learned the way to the saw-mill. In spite of 

 all these changes I have only to wave an enchanted 

 hazel wand, or to wade stocking-footed in a stream 

 of water, to bring back that day, and Stony Brook 

 lives again in all its bygone loveliness. 



