far up-stream to drift back with the current.

Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached deep beneath the surface to bring
up the long-stemmed water-lilies - the great white blossoms, and the
queer little yellow-and-black ones.

Like a blight-eyed sprite the tiny marsh-wren flitted among the rushes,
and the musk-rat built strange reed-castles at the water's edge.

The lace-winged dragon-fly following our boat darted from side to side,
or poised in air, or alighted on the dripping blade of our paddle when
it rested for a moment across our knees.

Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird melodies which only
Boyhood could interpret.

In this place The River sang its love-songs, and sent forth an answering
note to the vast harmonious blending of blue sky and golden day and
incense-heavy air and the glad songs of birds.

And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed to be the self-same
river of the old, loved hymn we sang so often in the Little Church With
The White Steeple - that river which "flows by the throne of God";
fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing
"peace . . . like a river, and glory . . . like a flowing stream."



Christmas