XLVI. THE LITTLE BROOK GONE DRY 
“In heat the quivering landscape lies; 
The cattle pant beneath the tree; 
Through parching air and purple skies 
The earth looks up in vain for thee; 
For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, 
O gentle, gentle summer rain.” 
—William C. Bennett (Invocation to Rain). 
When summer comes, many brooks cease their singing. 
When the leafage of the season is developed, the surplus 
water of the soil ceases to feed the brooks; for it is gathered 
by the plant roots and distilled silently through the pores 
of innumerable leaves into the thirsty atmosphere. The 
silvery streams become broken into segregated pools, which 
dwindle and dwindle as the drouth increases. Where the 
floods of springtime made their deepest plunges, there lie 
basins of bare mud. Truly the brook’s inhabitants are 
subject to sore vicissitudes; to the ice of winter and the 
floods of spring is now added the severest test of all—the 
withdrawal of the water. 
Let us take our way up the bed of some small stream that 
has lingered well through a long dry season, but has finally 
gone dry. How great are the changes in the conditions of 
life! Here, where shining water played among the pebbles, 
toying with their dainty drapery of green and brown algae, 
there is nothing left on stones and brook-bed but a gray 
powder that crumbles to dust at atouch. There, where was 
a pool, where tadpoles basked and water-skaters raced over 
the surface, now lies a sheet of baked mud, caked and 
cracked in deep fissures. The life of the brook itself is gone: 
at least, it is gone from the places in which we usually find 
it. And yet, we know it will reappear, for where there is 
drouth now, there has been drouth before, and failure of 
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