236 THE BROOK BOOK 



haps the shortest way led over the top of this rock 

 of which you speak and perhaps there was no rift 

 through which it could creep. Then with its stone 

 hammers and chisels and sandpaper it began to 

 enlarge and deepen its channel. It is still working 

 at it. 



"By the way," he continued, "did you notice 

 the ' pot-holes ' along there in Stony Brook?" 



"Pot-holes?" I inquired. 



"Yes, that's what we call them. Sometimes a 

 stone gets lodged where the current does not 

 push it along, but just jogs it in passing. Every 

 jog grinds off a little bit of stone and a few fine 

 grains of the bed rock. Day by day this goes on 

 until even when the current is stronger it cannot 

 dislodge the rounded stone, which grows smaller 

 every year as the smooth little basin in which it 

 rolls about grows larger. This takes a long while, 

 but finally the stone becomes a mere pebble and 

 the grinding ceases, and there is a ' pot -hole' for 

 wondering eyes to gaze at. The big basins at the 

 foot of our waterfalls are made in a similar way 

 and bear this name." 



"I shall never be satisfied until I find a real 

 ' pot-hole,'" I exclaimed, quite fascinated with the 

 idea. Since then I have found them, but I have 

 never yet found the stone actually at work forming 

 the basin. 



A brook is a river in miniature. It has its 

 source, its tributaries, its struggles and its little 

 triumphs. It is self-made, but dependent. Rivers 



