SPRINGS. 57 



of would be likely to turn up there? I can seldom 

 pass a spring without doing homage to it. It is the 

 shrine at which I oftenest worship. If I find one 

 fouled with leaves or trodden full by cattle, I take as 

 much pleasure in cleaning it out as a devotee in set- 

 ting up the broken image of his Saint. Though I 

 chance not to want to drink there, I like to behold a 

 clear fountain, and I may want to drink next time 

 I pass, or some traveler, or heifer, or milch cow may. 

 Leaves have a strange fatality for the spring. They 

 come from afar to get into it. In a grove or in the 

 woods they drift into it and cover it up like snow. 

 Late in November, in clearing one out, I brought 

 forth a frog from his hibernacle in the leaves at the 

 bottom. He was very black and he rushed about in 

 a bewildered manner like one suddenly aroused from 

 his sleep. 



There is no place more suitable for statuary than 

 about a spring or fountain, especially in parks or im- 

 proved fields. Here one seems to expect to see fig- 

 ures and bending forms. " Where a spring rises or 

 a river flows," says Seneca, " there should we build 

 altars, and offer sacrifices." 



I have spoken of the hunter's spring. The travel- 

 er's spring is a little cup or saucer-shaped fountain 

 set in the bank by the roadside. The harvester's 

 spring is beneath a wide-spreading tree in the fields. 

 The lover's spring is down a lane under a hill. There 

 is a good screen of rocks and bushes. The hermit's 

 spring is on the margin of a lake in the woods. The 



