XLVL THE LITTLE BROOK GONE DRY 



"/« heat the quivering landscape lies; 

 The cattle pant beneath the tree; 

 Through parching air and purple skies 



The earth looks up in vain for thee; 

 For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, 

 gentle, gentle summer rain." 



— William C. Bennett (Invocation to Rain). 



When summer comes, many brooks cease their singing. 

 When the leafage of the season is developed, the surplus 

 water of the soil ceases to feed the brooks; for it is gathered 

 by the plant roots and distilled silently through the pores 

 of innumerable leaves into the thirsty atmosphere. The 

 silvery streams become broken into segregated pools, which 

 dwindle and dwindle as the drouth increases. Where the 

 floods of springtime made their deepest plunges, there lie 

 basins of bare mud. Truly the brook's inhabitants are 

 subject to sore vicissitudes; to the ice of winter and the 

 floods of spring is now added the severest test of all — the 

 withdrawal of the water. 



Let us take our way up the bed of some small stream that 

 has lingered well through a long dry season, but has finally 

 gone dry. How great are the changes in the conditions of 

 life! Here, where shining water played among the pebbles, 

 toying with their dainty drapery of green and brown algae, 

 there is nothing left on stones and brook-bed but a gray 

 powder that crumbles to dust at a touch. There, where was 

 a pool, where tadpoles basked and water-skaters raced over 

 the surface, now lies a sheet of baked mud, caked and 

 cracked in deep fissures. The Hfe of the brook itself is gone : 

 at least, it is gone from the places in which we usually find 

 it. And yet, we know it will reappear, for where there is 

 drouth now, there has been drouth before, and failure of 



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