distant island.

[Illustration: ON BEAR CREEK]

In the shadows the brook seems to have a more solemn tone, in keeping
with its somber surroundings, singing its song to the white-petaled
saxifrage that peeps out at it over the bed of maidenhair fern, or the
bright-leaved water cress; then flashing out into the sunlight, and,
like a boy out of school, romping and laughing in utter abandon.

Flowering currants, with rose-pink clusters of blossoms, line the
banks, scattering their fragrance far and near. The rancorous cry of
the catbird, and the rattling call of the kingfisher, that feathered
spirit of the stream, are left behind; the clear flutelike notes of
the meadow lark take their place, and the hills, covered with wild
flowers, roll back from its margin, as if to make room for its
uninterrupted flow.

The Western bluebird floats across the meadow like a flashing
sapphire, and the lark-sparrow pours forth his melody, as he teeters
up and down on a weed stalk.

But at night the brook is heard at its best, when it performs its
symphonies for the flickering moonlight that nestles upon its bosom,
and the stars that reflect their lamps on its surface.

Make your camp on its margin and when your fire burns low, and you
draw your blanket around you, with the mountain brook singing its
lullaby, and the vesper sparrow chanting its melodious vesper hymn,
you can say with the psalmist, "I will both lay me down in peace and