SONG OF THE BROOKLET. 87 



bedded in its banks offer but little resistance as 

 the water glides by or over their smooth rounded 

 sides or tops. Ever those flowing waters sing 

 a song of cheer, of work, of action. Ever they 

 seek their Mecca, the level of the sea. That is 

 the lodestar which lures them on and on. Man 

 may dam their progress for a little time but 

 they gather in ever increasing volume until 

 some are pushed over the crest of his barrier. 

 Then onward forever do others follow. 



Tiny the stream, yet this broad valley has it 

 carved. Insignificant it appears, yet no power 

 of man can stay wholly and for all time its on- 

 ward progress. For down there far beyond 

 is gravity calling, ever calling, luring, ever 

 luring, yet silent as the grave. 



you babbling brooklets, how your rippling, 

 murmuring waters make music for my soul! 

 Whene'er I reach your banks I pause and listen 

 as you answer ever the call of that sea in whose 

 depths your God of gravity doth dwell. Al- 

 ways do you sing to him, ' ' I am coming, coming 

 am I," and while you sing you move. Work- 

 ing and singing, yours is a merry existence. 

 Never do you pause to grumble but onward, 

 ever onward, do you go until you reach your 

 goal. 



Scores, perhaps hundreds of times have the 

 same particles of water, the same oxygen and 



