The Gray Brethren | Page 9

but the pool
is undisturbed; it lies out of the current. They say it is very deep--no
one knows quite how deep--and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down
through the clear water, following the thick lily-stalks--a forest where
solemn carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the
maze-- and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its
stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and the
evening glow lying at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with flowers
of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that reflect, in light
uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town
where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the 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 restocking it. Under one of the
banks close by lived a fat frog for whom I felt great respect. We used to
sit and gaze at each other in silent intercourse, until he became bored--I
think I never did--and flopped into the water with a splash.
But it was the brook itself that was my chief and dearest companion. It
chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins who lived under
the hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on moonlight nights, and
scolding the pale lilac milk-maids on the banks; and of a sad little old
man dressed in brown, always sad because his dear water-children ran
away from him when they heard the voice of the great river telling
them of the calling of the sea.
It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be put
into words, things of the mysteries of a child's imagination; and these
linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until they are fulfilled.
* * * * *

I have another friend--a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring when
the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do not even
know its name; it has its source up among the old grey tors, and
doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for existence. When it
reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream, although nowhere navigable.
I do not think it even turns a mill; it just flows along and waters the
flowers. I have seen it with my bodily eyes only once; but it has left in
my life a blessing, a picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling
water--and whispered secrets not forgotten.
All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They chatter
cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their bed. Some of
them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past, of the worship of the
false god when blood stained the clear waters; tales, too, of feud and
warfare, of grave council and martial gathering; and happy stories of
fairy and pixy our eyes are too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen
with foreign ways