lo THE BROOK BOOK 



A stunted oak stood guard at a bend in the 

 channel. Its arms were bare already and revealed 

 the great rope - like vines of wild grape which 

 reached its topmost branch and hung swaying there 

 in the wind. They reminded me of the old non- 

 sense rhyme about 



" The Jack and the Jolick and the Jamborie, 

 They climbed to the top of the Banyan tree, 



They climbed to the top 



But they had to stop, 

 For no more foothold could they see." 



Our lips and tongues were soon blue with juice 

 of the wild grapes whose clusters hung in tempt- 

 ing array within easy reach. This so renewed our 

 youth that we did not mind the burdocks and the 

 pitchforks. Below the oak tree a border of sumach 

 glowed and burned. Leafless alders shook their 

 dry cone-like catkins over the very middle of the 

 stream. Belated asters hid in sheltered places. 

 Plumy goldenrods, their gold turned to dull silver, 

 and beautiful as old age is beautiful, bowed stiffly 

 as we passed. 



A dash of red caught the eye from among the 

 burdocks and dead pennyroyal stalks. We had 

 come to a place where the stream had a double 

 channel with an island between. This island was 

 fairly possessed by bittersweet and Virginia creeper. 

 They climbed or clambered over each other, and 

 over such unrecognizable weeds as had found a 

 foothold there. The berries of the bittersweet shone 

 as if newly burnished. They do look appetizing, 



