THE FALLS OF ST, CROLX 
HOUGH not an artist, I sit down in hearing 
of the laughter of running water to paint a 
picture. The commonest artists may at- 
tempt the fairest landscape, which may 
seem to justify this present attempt. The 
place is the falls of the St. Croix; though | 
would have you forget the village and re- 
member the place. Yet, scarcely that, for 
in the air last night swung the sweet ca- 
dences of a church bell, a music not to be 
heard lightly or without reverence, whether 
in crowded city or in solitary hamlet, or on 
far mountain side; for what minds of God, 
in an instant, without effort, reaches the 
sublime. However, forget the village, save 
its swinging church bell, and remember only the place where the river 
falls and runs away. 
I am attracted by the river’s name. There was a touch of the poet 
in those old French voyageurs. And if they were Jesuits, as was so 
often the fact, religion mixed with their poetry; and discovery was their 
poetry as hymns were the poetry of George Herbert and Keble; and 
they starred the way they discovered by their ‘‘saints’’ and a quaint and 
touching festival of names, making their discoveries one long pilgrimage 
to Jerusalern. This river, some forgotten lover of the cross named St. 
Croix, and the name puts me to prayer. For which cause, seeking 
some solitude where I might “knit up the raveled sleave of care,” | 
chose this; and the name did not deceive me. I am glad 1 came. The 
river is not what it once was, for rivers miss their youth as age does, 
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