MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



human-fearing creatures, ever gaining strength 

 and volume as it advances, until at last, over at 

 the mountain-base yonder, it breaks from forest 

 confines, and, with a triumphant leap, dashes in 

 among the scattered bowlders and hurries along 

 to join the majestic St. Lawrence. 



How many phases of its character the stream 

 reveals to us from the time it comes in sight at 

 the forest's border until it loses itself in the 

 great river beyond. Here it rushes merrily along 

 through rocky, hollow stretches, occasionally, at 

 a repulse from a giant bowlder or an encounter 

 with a sharp, projecting stone, curling back in 

 soft, white, glittering foam. Chattering, gur- 

 gling, rippling, leaping, laughing as it goes. 

 There, at a sudden shelving of its bed, it glides 

 serenely on, far above the rocks and stones visi- 

 ble in its clear, sandy depths; and the fishes dart 

 playfully in and out among the rocky crevices 

 or lodge in the cool, quiet shelter of the great 

 stones. 



On the opposite side is a pebbly beach, where 

 the stream leaps and eddies around the shore. 

 Here the little children come to wade and to sail 

 their tiny ships, and farther down in a shallow 



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