Throughout the year a brook is captivating. It is 

 as companionable as a child, and as changeful. It 

 hints at mysteries. 'But does it tell secrets other than 

 its own? T)oes it tell where the wild things come 

 down to drink ? 'Does it tell where the birds take 

 their baths, or where the choicest wild flowers lurk? 

 I fain would know the story of its playfellows and 

 dependents. 



The brook has made its own way down the hill, 

 through the woods and across the meadow. May we 

 not follow it? Is it not a type of the best kind of 

 human life? — the steep hillside of youth, the wild 

 dash, the splashing through and under and between 

 difficulties, the firm, steady flow down the gradual 

 slope of middle age, — finally the safe and tranquil 

 passing into the unknown"? 



And yet, in spite of its mysteries, one may really 

 know a brook. A river is too distant, — too much an 

 institution and too little an individual. A brook 



(ix) 



