324 NA T URE-ST UD Y RE VIE W [13 :8— Nov. , 1917 



plored as the arctic regions. Somehow, it was not a brook in the 

 winter time. It was merely a dreary waste, as cold and as for- 

 bidding as death. The winter was only a season of waiting, and 

 spring was always late. 



Many years have come and gone since then. My affection for 

 the brook gave way to a study of plants and animals and stones. 

 For years I was absorbed in phenomena. But now mere phe- 

 nomena and things have slipped into a secondary place, and the 

 old boyhood slowly reasserts itself. I am sure that I know the 

 brook the better because I know more about the things that live in 

 its little world ; yet that same mystery pervades it and there is that 

 same longing for the things that lie beyond. I remember that in 

 the old days I did not mind the rain and the sleet when visiting 

 the brook. I was not conscious that they were not a part of the 

 brook itself. It was only when I began to dress up that the rain 

 annoyed me. I must make a proper appearance before the world. 

 From that time, the brook and I grew further apart. We arc- 

 coming together again now. It is no misdemeanor to gel wet it" 

 you feel that you are not spoiling your clothing. One's happiness 

 is largely a question of clothes. 



But the brook is one degree the better now just because it 

 remains a brook all winter. The winter is the best season of the 

 four because there is more mystery in it. Things are hidden; yet 

 there is a new and strange spirit in the air. There are strange 

 bird-calls in the depths of the still, white woods. There are strange 

 marks in the new-fallen snow. There are soft noises when the 

 snow drops from the trees. There are grotesque figures on the old 

 fence. There is the warm brown pathway of the brook still 

 winding up between oozing banks. In the spring there are tr< k ips 

 of flower-gatherers along the brook. In the summer there arc 

 fishers at the deep pools. In the fall there are nut-gatherers and 

 aimless wanderers. In the winter the brook and I are alone. 

 We know. 



In Nature's open book, 



An epic is the sea, 



A lyric is the brook: — 



Lyric's for me. 



Prank Dempster Sherman. 



