WRIT IN WATER 



within the myopic range of the man who for- 

 gets to look up at the heavens. 



Working with her marvelous medium on 

 the earth, nature keeps her old rule of doing 

 nothing by leaps. From the tiniest rill a 

 simple little rondeau sung in the wooded 

 hills she goes on increasing her volume 

 from pastoral brook and lyric rivulet till she 

 writes a great epic in an Amazon or a Mis- 

 sissippi. By the same imperceptible steps 

 she passes from the ignoble puddle, whose 

 very name classifies it, to the inscrutable 

 pool, full of dreams, the little lake, the 

 larger one, the great lake, the inland sea, 

 and her magnum opus, the ocean. Each of 

 these she further varies by her canny sor- 

 ceries of depth, chemical composition, and 

 reflection, now producing an emerald pool, 

 a salt lake, a dead sea, or the inky ocean 

 of the tropics. 



Still ringing new changes on her old 

 songs, the gay leader of these unique orches- 

 tras lures her brooks to some steep rocky cliff 

 and dares them to rush over the brink. Be- 

 ing her children, of course they accept the 



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