MEADOW THOUGHTS. 77 



finches, by the sweet cool water, but drawn also by a 

 fueling that could not be analysed. Stooping, I lifted 

 the water in the hollow of my hand carefully, lest 

 the sand might be disturbed and the sunlight 

 gleamed on it as it slipped through my fingers. Alone 

 in the green-roofed cave, alone with the sunlight and 

 the pure water, there was a sense of something more 

 than these. The water was more to me than water, 

 and the sun than sun. The gleaming rays on the 

 water in my palm held me for a moment, the touch of 

 the water gave me something from itself. A moment, 

 and the gleam was gone, the water flowing away, but 

 I had had them. Beside the physical water and 

 physical light I had received from them their beauty ; 

 they had communicated to me this silent mystery. 

 The pure and beautiful water, the pure, clear, and 

 beautiful light, each had given me something of their 

 truth. 



So many times I came to it, toiling up the long and 

 shadowless hill in the burning sunshine, often carrying 

 a vessel to take some of it home with me. There was 

 a brook, indeed; but this was different, it was the 

 spring; it was taken home as a beautiful flower might 

 be brought. It is not the physical water, it is the 

 sense or feeling that it conveys. Nor is it the 

 physical sunshine; it is the sense ^.f inexpressible 

 beauty which it brings with it. Of such I still drink, 

 and hope to do so still deeper. 



