Rivers and Streams



Running water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of
which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the
guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as
well as for drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of
God with listening ears learn of its many voices.

When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps
troubled and perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a
boat and pull up stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and
then I make fast to the old alder-stump where last year the reed-
piper nested, and lie back in the stern and think.

The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the
current; the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side
eddies, of course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big
stones, but they are all gathered into the broad sweep of the
stream, carried down to the great catholic sea. And while I listen
to the murmur of the water and watch its quiet strength the day's
wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at last the river bears
me homeward rested and at peace.

There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart
from the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore
heart. Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the
banks, a solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch