LETTER XVII. 



THB METAMORPHOSED KIVULET. 



The rivulet which passes through my garden, and issues 

 from the side of a hill covered with gorse, has been for a long 

 time a very happy rivulet. It crossed meadows, where all 

 sorts of charming wild-flowers bathed and admired themselves 

 in its tiny waves; then it entered my garden, where I had 

 expected it, and prepared verdant banks for its reception. I 

 planted upon its sides, and in its stream, aU the plants which 

 in the whole world blossom in the bosom or on the banks of 

 pure waters. It crossed my garden, singing its melancholy 

 song; and then, all perfumed with my flowers, issued out, 

 crossed another meadow, and precipitated itself into the sea, 

 over the abrupt sides of a rock, which it covers with foam. 



It was a happy rivulet ; it had absolutely nothing to do 

 but what I ha,ve told you — to flow, to glide on, to be limpid, 

 to murmur, between flowers and perfumes. 



