liness. Some places, the silver of the stream gushes a fountain which 
glasses the hillside and the far-off sky. How it clatters like a busy 
street, or laughs cheerily like some sunshiny heart, and runs over 
pebbles, saying, ‘‘] go—but I tell not whither,’ and stays not a moment; 
for the hill is steep, but running like one who hears a friend calling, fills 
its woodland path with merry voices leaving sweet echoes when itself 
is gone, and a memory in my heart more lasting than these echoes in 
this shady wood. Other rivulets hide themselves as in modesty. You 
SUNRISE ON THE RIVER 
can not see whence they come; but they are come. Invisible threads of 
silver are braided to make this rivulet, and it whispers along its way, 
and if you will hear its voices you must lean down on the mossy bank it 
loves, lean and grow glad; for sweet as a child's kiss in the sleepy night 
is the voice of this silver thread of waters. Such dainty minstrelsy | 
have not heard since I lay in New England hills. One thing only is 
lacking here, just one; these brooks do not lose themselves in a tangle 
of roots and grasses, and then dash out suddenly a sweet surprise; but 
covetous would he be who would demand more than is here. The 
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