It chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins
who lived under the hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on
moonlight nights, and scolding the pale lilac milk-maids on the
banks; and of a sad little old man dressed in brown, always sad
because his dear water-children ran away from him when they heard
the voice of the great river telling them of the calling of the
sea.
It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be
put into words, things of the mysteries of a child's imagination;
and these linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until
they are fulfilled.
* * * * *
I have another friend--a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring
when the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do
not even know its name; it has its source up among the old grey
tors, and doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for
existence. When it reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream,
although nowhere navigable. I do not think it even turns a mill;
it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have seen it with my
bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a blessing, a
picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling water--and
whispered secrets not forgotten.
All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They
chatter cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their
bed. Some of them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past,
of the worship of the false god when blood stained the clear
waters; tales, too, of feud and warfare, of grave council and
martial gathering; and happy stories of fairy and pixy our eyes are
too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen with foreign ways and
terror of all human beings.
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