JUNE O’ THE YEAR 155 
to the boat prow and dipping a single oar held 
in both hands and thus making noiseless voyage 
save that the lapping of the water on the boat 
prow reminds you of all sweet music your ears 
have ever heard. That lapping of wavelets on 
the prow of the rowboat is to me celestial as 
among the sweetest voices in the variegated 
orchestra of God. I love it, love it. 
Down the river, out of the river into the wide 
expanse of the shoreless water. As you look 
outward not a touch of wind on the face of the 
water. This is a sea of glass. I lean and look 
and see the golden sands at deep depths and 
the golden rays of sunlight weaving their skeins 
of beauty on the sands at the bottom of the lake, 
and stop plying my solitary oar. This dear boat 
on the quiet lake lies like a lily on a silent stream. 
The fisher boat up the shore is hauling in the 
nets and I can see their spoils struggle and flash 
in the sun as they tumbled to their death. A 
sweet silence holds Lake Beautiful in thrall. She 
is the sleeping beauty which only the wooing 
wind shall know how to awaken. The sun flames 
and warns the water to cease slumber and awake 
and arise, but the waters do not heed the sun. 
They only answer smile for smile while never a 
ripple starts anywhere. The innumerable min- 
nows dash to and fro in infinite frolic. The under- 
water world is at play as well as the over-water 
world. The swallows wheel inland but do not 
cast their shadows on the mirroring waters of the 
