THE METAMOEPHOSJED RIVULET. 



135 



it foams, it labours — ^it sharpens knives. It still crosses the 

 meadow and my garden, then the other meadow; but at the 

 end of it the man is there, who waits for it, and makes it 

 work. I have only been able to do one thing for it : I have 

 dug a fresh bed for it in my garden, so that it may wind about 

 longer, and go out later; but it nevertheless finishes by 

 going to sharpen knives. Poor rivulet ! thou didst not suf- 

 ficiently conceal thy happiness in the grass; thou hast mur- 

 mured thy sweet song too loudly ! 



