The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1899-03-12
AN IDYL OF A LITTLE BROOK.

The little brook is not there now. Its sour
rying race to the sea, which used TO seem
endless. 4 matter OF fact ended long ago,
and the rains that fall there now, the rains
that used to trickle through a filter of green
est woodland foliage to feed the little brook,
come in beating showers now and are
snatched up and spirited away in silence
and darkness by a network OF greedy under
ground drains. The massive trees that shell
tered the little brook Of old were cut down
so long ago that not even a stump remains,
and the ground is being titled to-day for
the tenth time over the little brooks grave
But you who have not visited the old home
neighborhood for SO many years do not
know this-being told, you cannot realize it;
and, however far from the little brooks
olden haunts your lives and interests lie,
you have a habit of returning there in fancy
every spring. To you the little brook still
runs on and sings Of DID, and, in memory,
you follow it from it's source in the oozy
swamp, where the sweet flag and calamus
grow-though the old swamp, too, has long
ago been drained dry and calamus has be-
come extinct. From the brooks origin you
follow il slantwise across the pasture
through the rude slat fioodgate into the
woods. It's bed, scarcely deeper than fur
row at first, increases in depth as you pro-
coed, until, by the time you reach the flood
gate, it has become a well-defned hollow,
with steep, grassy slopes, marked here and
there by winding pig paths of yellow clay
and stunted clusters Of blackberry bushes.
You climb upon the floodgate and gaze after
the little brook as it ripples away into the
soft green twilight of the woods. Not far
distant is a tiny waterfall, where a walnut
log has choked the stream, and its constant
quiet tinllle becomes at length the Turing
song of a siren, whose spell no mortal can
resist So you fling your shoes and stock
ings to the winds-although it is early April
and slide off-plash into the water. 1t is
cold at first and the pebbles at the bottom
are rough and prickly, but you are boy
and you would rather go lame barefoot
pebbles near the fall and you stOop above
it in eager search for red and yellow "keaP'
and Indian beads and soapstone and smooth,
round rocks, suitable for throwing. So many
beautiful specimens are found that your
pockets presently begin 10 bulge and chafe
You you walk; but not one pebble can be
Still the brook runs on down the shadowy
glen, and still it sings and beckons you TO
follow. You roll your trousers above your
knees and plunge after it, AT length the
glen becomes a deep and dimly lit ravine,
upon whose sloping banks grow only ferns
and NOSES The woods above are dense and
dark and sOemnly silent except for the song
of the brook, the occasional scampering of
squirrels and the desolate 'que-ank'' OF nest
ing ground robins. The ravine widens and
the beech trees and oaks begin to be dis
placed by silver-leaved Syc2moreS and
spreading elfns, whose octopus-like roots al
most choke the stream. You come upon 5n
open space where a white Sandbar glitters in
the sun, and, sprawling full length upon II,
you thrust hands and feet into its warm
depths. 1t is such a Tranquil restful spot that
even the restless brook idles around the bar
with hardly perceptible current, its voice
sinking into q lulling murmur OF drowSy con-
tentment with just the fainteSt, dreamiest
undertone. now and then, of regret.
From beyond a distant clump OF willows
there comes the steady, half-audlble mono
tone of deeper. swifter waters; and the
brook quits its idle eddies and goes hurry
ing on in willing obedience 10 the summons
TO join the creek You are aroused by the
rasping cry Of a kingfisher, ard, beyond the
maze of willows, catch a glimpse of a soil
tary sloW-winged heron. Rising, you follow
the brook breathlessly through the thicket
TO the inevitable fate which has been await
ing it all the while; and you stand by visit
fully and watch il tumbleS headlong
over broad, velvety, green bowlder and Is
lost. The little brook calls to you no more,
but, loath TO give it up forever, perhaps.
you follow on in fancy from creek to river,
and on and on 10 the sea; on and on, until
the chips you tossed TO it have become state
ly vessels, the harsh-voiced kingnsher mas
become a gull, the ripples have become
pillows and you, mariner, are far out at
sea.
The little brook is not there now Its race
to the sea has long ago been run: and the
barefoot boy who used to be its fondest
playmate-he, too, has been swallowed by
the sea Z. O. LAUGHLIN.