' WOOD MAGIC ' AND ' BEVIS ' i6r 



and then ; there is no wall between you and then — 



nothing at all, dear " And the brook sang so low and 



thoughtfully that Bevis could not catch what he said, but 

 the tune was so sweet, and soft, and sad that it made him 

 keep quite still. While he was listening the kingfisher 

 came back and perched on the hatch, and Bevis saw his 

 ruddy neck and his blue wings. 



' " There is nothing between you and then," the brook 

 began again, " nothing at all, dear ; only some stories 

 which are not true ; if you will not believe me, look at the 

 sun ; but you cannot look at the sun, darling, it shines so 

 bright. It shines just the same, as bright and beautiful ; 

 and the wind blows as sweet as ever, and I sparkle and 

 sing just the same, and you may drink me if you like ; and 

 the grass is just as green ; and the stars shine at night. 

 Oh, yes, Bevis dear, we are all here just the same, my 

 love, and all things are as bright and beautiful as ten 

 thousand times ten thousand years ago, which is no 

 longer since than a second. 



' " But your own people have gone away from us — that 

 is their own fault. I cannot think why they should do 

 so ; they have gone away from us, and they are no longer 

 happy. Bevis, they cannot understand our songs — they 

 sing stupid songs they have made up themselves, and 

 which they did not learn of us, and then, because they are 

 not happy, they say : ' The world is growing old.' But it 

 is not true, Bevis, the world is not old ; it is as young as 

 ever it was. Fling me a leaf — and now another. Do not 

 you forget me, Bevis ; come and see me now and then, and 

 throw twigs to me and splash me." '* 



The quiet tune of that singing brook runs through all 

 of Jefferies' books. To taste of its flashing water is a 

 sacrament in ' The Story of My Heart ' ; the recollection 

 of it saddens him in his last writing because he fears it is 

 not heard of men ; not to hear it amidst the wild question- 

 ing, the sad despairs, the sadder heaves, of the auto- 

 biography is to have missed the joyous heart of his work. 



* Wood Magic. 



II 



