THE FALLS OF ST. CROIX 



[HOUGH not an artist, I sit down in hearing 

 of the laughter of running water to paint a 

 picture. The commonest artists may at- 

 tempt the fairest landscape, which may 

 seem to justify this present attempt. The 

 place is the falls of the St. Croix; though I 

 would have you forget the village and re- 

 member the place. Yet, scarcely that, for 

 in the air last night swung the sweet ca- 

 dences of a church bell, a music not to be 

 heard lightly or without reverence, whether 

 in crowded city or in solitary hamlet, or on 

 far mountain side; for what minds of God, 

 in an instant, without effort, reaches the 

 sublime. However, forget the village, save 



its swinging church bell, and remember only the place where the river 

 falls and runs away. 



I am attracted by the river's name. There was a touch of the poet 

 in those old French voyageurs. And if they were Jesuits, as was so 

 often the fact, religion mixed with their poetry; and discovery was their 

 poetry as hymns were the poetry of George Herbert and Keble; and 

 they starred the way they discovered by their "saints" and a quaint and 

 touching festival of names, making their discoveries one long pilgrimage 

 to Jerusalem. This river, some forgotten lover of the cross named St. 

 Croix, and the name puts me to prayer. For which cause, seeking 

 some solitude where I might "knit up the raveled sleave of care," 1 

 chose this; and the name did not deceive me. I am glad I came. The 

 river is not what it once was, for rivers miss their youth as age does, 



ill 



