old grey church stands out clear and distinct against the fading
sky.

* * * * *

One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in
the home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook--it
passed through an industrious manufacturing world--but to me then
this mattered not at all.

Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little
cave in the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks
was always higher than the other. I once sought to penetrate the
cave, but with sad results in the shape of bed before dinner and no
pudding, such small sympathy have one's elders with the spirit of
research. Just beyond the cave the brook was quite a respectable
width,--even my big boy cousin fell into mud and disgrace when he
tried to jump it--and there was a gravelly beach, at least several
inches square, where we launched our boats of hollowed elder-wood.
Soon, however, it narrowed, it could even be stepped over; but it
was still exciting and delightful, with two perilous rapids over
which the boats had to be guided, and many boulders--for the brook
was a brave stream, and had fashioned its bed in rocky soil.
Further down was our bridge, one flat stone dragged thither by
really herculean efforts. It was unnecessary, but a triumph. A
little below this outcome of our engineering skill the brook
widened again before disappearing under a flagged tunnel into the
neighbouring field. Here, in the shallows, we built an aquarium.
It was not altogether successful, because whenever it rained at all
hard the beasts were washed out; but there was always joy in