XXXVIII 



ALONG THE BROOK IN MARCH 



THE banks of Clear Brook are steep. In some 

 places the loose earth and shale have caved off, 

 leaving great irregular heaps of rubbish on the 

 stream bed below, and bare, precipitous walls 

 above. On the right hand side of the stream, 

 midway between the water line and sky line, is a 

 path. You must be sure-footed if you would fol- 

 low its lead. Now mounting to near the top of 

 the bank, where you may catch glimpses of neigh- 

 boring chimney pots, now dropping suddenly into 

 the bed of some tributary stream, its course is a 

 series of surprises. Each change of direction or 

 level brings you within range of a fresh picture. 



In March, when the snow was all melted from 

 the south side of things, this path was ever a joy 

 and a revelation to me. If I looked downward, I 

 saw the mass of struggling, seething, chocolate- 

 colored water, quite unlike our summer memory 

 of Clear Brook. Above, against the cloud -swept 

 sky, the pale gray-green of the poplars was barely 

 visible. Mentally resolving to have a closer look 

 at these trees on my way home, I swung heavily 

 down the path and found myself on the slippery 

 side of a heretofore unknown brooklet. Not until 

 I had reached the bottom and crossed on the 

 inadequate bridge of driftwood and icy stones, did 



