high up on the mist-soaked timbers of the mill-race and settle ourselves
contentedly with the spray moistening our faces and the warm sun
browning our hands - and the heavy pounding of falling waters sounding
in our ears so melodiously and so sweetly. Lazily, drowsily we'll hold a
bamboo pole and guide out shiner through the foam-crowned eddies of the
whirlpool, awaiting the flash of a golden side or a lusty tug at the
line; and dreamily watch a long, narrow stream of shavings and sawdust,
loosed from the opposite planing-mill, float away on the current. And
here, in the dear dream-days, the conquering of the world will be a
simple matter; for through the mist-prisms that rise from the foaming
waters below the dam only rainbows can be seen - and there is Youth and
the Springtime, and the new-born flowers and mating birds, and The
River. . . .

And when the sun is low we'll wind our poles, at the end of a rare and
great day - one that cannot die with the sunset, but that will live so
long as Memory is. Tonight we need not trudge over the fields toward
home, in happy weariness, to Her who waited and watched for us at the
window, peering through the gathering dusk until the anxious heart was
stilled by the sight of tired little legs dragging down the street past
the postoffice. We'll stay here in the twilight, and watch the
fire-flies light their fitful lamps, and the first stars blinking
through the afterglow; and when the night drops down see the black bats
careening weirdly across the moon. . . . And we'll stretch out again on
the wild grass - soothed by the fragrance of the Mayapple and the
violets, and the touch of the night-wind. . . How still it is . . . and
The River doesn't seem to sound so loud when your head's on the ground -
and your eyes are closed - and you're listening to the far, far, far-off
lullaby of tumbling waters - and you're a bit tired, Perhaps . . . a bit
tired. . . .