Then, too, the buds rise out of the water
and the moon kisses them into bloom and fragrance. Near by are the
little yellow water-lilies, set for beauty against a background of
great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall feathery meadowsweet. The
river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies
out of the current. They say it is very deep--no one knows quite
how deep--and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the
clear water, following the thick lily-stalks--a forest where solemn
carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze--
and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its
stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and
the evening glow lying at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with
flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that
reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town
where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the
old grey church stands out clear and distinct against the fading
sky.
* * * * *
One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in
the home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook--it
passed through an industrious manufacturing world--but to me then
this mattered not at all.
Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little
cave in the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks
was always higher than the other.
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