SPRINGS 



A long, gentle flight of stone steps leads from the 

 back porch down to it under the branches of a lofty 

 elm. It wells up through the white sand and gravel 

 as through a sieve, and fills the broad space that 

 has been arranged for it so gently and impercepti- 

 bly that one does not suspect its copiousness until 

 he has seen the overflow. It turns no wheel, yet 

 it lends a pliant hand to many of the affairs of that 

 household. It is a refrigerator in summer and a 

 frost-proof envelope in winter, and a fountain of 

 delights the year round. Trout come up from the 

 Weebutook River and dwell there and become 

 domesticated, and take lumps of butter from your 

 hand, or rake the ends of your fingers if you tempt 

 them. It is a kind of sparkling and ever-washed 

 larder. Where are the berries ? where is the butter, 

 the milk, the steak, the melon ? In the spring. It 

 preserves, it ventilates, it cleanses. It is a board of 

 health and a general purveyor. It is equally for 

 use and for pleasure. Nothing degrades it, and 

 nothing can enhance its beauty. It is picture and 

 parable, and an instrument of music. It is servant 

 and divinity in one. The milk of forty cows is 

 cooled in it, and never a drop gets into the cans, 

 though they are plunged to the brim. It is as 

 insensible to drought and rain as to heat and cold. 

 It is planted upon the sand, a.nd yet it abideth like 

 a house upon a rock. It evidently has some rela- 

 tion to a little brook that flows down through a deep 

 49 



