THE HEART OF THE MOUNTAIN. 19 
its waves upon the shore by night and by day 
all through the endless years, and this brook 
rolls down its tons upon tons of water by night 
and by day forever. It seems impossible that 
this and all the other streams which flow down 
rocky mountain-sides can be nourished simply 
by the softly falling rain and snow. 
Much of the fascination of the sea is in its 
voice, so seldom hushed, so often roused to an¬ 
ger. The torrent by which I stood had some¬ 
thing of the same weird power. For the mo¬ 
ment, all outside those narrow wooded steeps, 
between which the splash, murmur, and roar of 
the stream pervaded everything and overwhelmed 
everything, all beyond that controlling sound 
was forgotten, barred out, lost. All within the 
power of the stream was under a spell, cooling, 
soothing, comforting. 
To reach the heart of the mountain nearly a 
mile of brook bed had to be traveled, so I 
climbed upward rock by rock, past falls and 
pools, clusters of nodding ferns, bridges of an¬ 
cient trees now hung with mosses, and sloping 
ledges faced with moss, down which the water 
rolled in glistening sheets. At one point the 
brook, years ago, had cut through a ledge which 
crossed its path diagonally. One great shoulder 
of rock remained, protruding from the western 
bank and hanging over the water, which poured 
