THE WINDINGS OF A STREAM 



TREAMS are poor geometers and are in ill repute 

 with rigid mathematicians. The mathematician 

 has engaged himself to and married the straight 

 line; and a straight line the 

 stream knows nothing of, or 

 knowing of, absolutely refuses to 

 recognize. I am proud of the 

 stream. It may not be mathe- 

 matical, but is poetical, which, 

 with all deference to mathema- 

 ticians, is much better. Mathe- 

 matics are necessary; poetry is 

 more necessary. God is both 



mathematician and poet; but- such combination exists only in him. Men 

 must be mathematician or poet; and, as for me, I will join hands with 

 the poet if he will let me. 



Every water course refuses (absolutely and without reason, like a 

 little man) to go on section lines. I have watched them through 

 many years and have never found a stream which would of its own 

 accord go as the crow flies. Water is a sad gad-about. It has no 

 more notion of sticking to a road than a dog has when he goes .driving 

 with you. In short, the stream has a mind of its own, like a little 

 woman; and there is the end of it. You can not argue with water. 

 Like a woman, it goes by intuition; but its ways, like a woman's 

 ways, are very sweet and self-justificatory. 



Every stream is a poet. Poets are born so. How many streams 

 I have followed toward or to their source ! What wild rollics I have 

 had, with the streams laughing at me with wild rollicking laughter, 



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