September, 1917 
21 
Levick 
THE BURIED TUMULT of A LAKESIDE 
You may call it peace, ineffable peace, to sit beside the limpid, lustral waters of a lake. But 
for that calm there is also a buried tumult—the constant urging of bottom springs, the blind 
groping of roots into the dark earth, the tireless reach upward and outward of branch and stem 
and leaf. Only the stones woidd seem to scorn the tumult, stones that have passed through the 
trying fires and the cooling of ages, and have reached the peaceful inaction of maturity. 
