DOWN THE TORRENT'S PATHWAY. 291 
me it seemed to be seeking anything but the 
rest, everything but the peace, to which its cur¬ 
rent ought to tend. 
Fast and furious as is the torrent of Swift 
River, its beginning is in the heavens, and as 
long as the noble forests cloak the hills and 
guard the springs, so long will its current be 
sustained by fresh supplies of moisture drawn 
from the distant sea. This human current, 
coursing into and through the city, draws a 
part of its strength from the hills. All our 
New England uplands are draining their youth 
and strength into the cities, but the ocean which 
these life-streams reach gives back no gentle, 
purified life to fill the mountain farms. It 
takes all, pollutes much, but yields nothing in 
return. 
A deep-toned bell in the Old North Church 
spoke to the foggy night. Answering voices 
came from a dozen belfries. They seemed to 
call in review the long year now drawing to its 
close. Years are as days to them in their high 
places far above the human stream, but years 
are very real to us who can count so few of 
them before we reach that wide Ocean towards 
which our stream flows. The flower has a day 
for its year, the gnat an hour. What a mighty 
harvest Death has reaped since this year began; 
yet no one expects any shrinkage in the current 
