THE VINTAGE OF THE LEAVES. 189 
I sought for a gleam of water. Not a drop was 
to be seen. I descended, following the sound 
of the falling drops, and came to a perpendicular 
ledge at the upper end of the ravine. There 
was no mistaking the direction of the music; it 
came from the face of the rocks and the pile of 
debris at its bottom. Still not a drop of water 
could be seen. The falling beech leaves had 
completely covered brook and fall, pool and 
rock, but behind their veil the water went on 
with its singing. It will do the same, brave 
little rill! when snow covers the leaves and ice 
forms above and below the snow. The sweet 
jingling notes will be muffled, but they will be 
sung all the same. 
Of course I drank from the brook, sweeping 
away the encumbering leaves from the top of 
the fall to get the water just where it rushed 
most swiftly. Not to drink from a New Hamp¬ 
shire brook is almost as much of a slight as not 
to bow to a friend, or not to kiss a little child 
when she lifts her face for the good-night caress 
which she thinks all the world is ready and 
worthy to give to little children. Refreshed, I 
clambered up the other side of the glen and 
regained the open moorland, and the glorious, 
rushing wind. Across the valley the old river 
terraces stood out as sharply as steps cut in the 
face of the hill. To have cut those fair out- 
