The Long Ago | Page 4

bare of leaves and its
snow-and-ice-bound setting, it rejoiced me.
Teams of big horses and wagons and scores of men, worked busily
upon its frozen surface, sawing and cutting and packing ice in the big
wooden houses along the banks.
Always there was enough wind for an ice-boat or a skate-sail, or to
send a fellow swiftly along when mother-made promises were forgotten
and an unbuttoned coat was held outstretched to catch the breeze.
At night the torches and bonfires flickered and glowed where the

skaters sent the merry noises of their revelry afloat through the crisp air
as they dodged steel-footed in and out among the huts of the winter
fishermen.
Perhaps I loved the winter river because I knew that beneath its
forbidding surface there was the life of my loved lilies, and because I
knew that all in good time the real river - our river - would be restored
to us again, alive and joyous and unchanged.
One day, when first the tiny rivulets started to run from the bottom of
the snow-drifts, The River suddenly unloosed its artillery and the crisp
air reechoed with the booming that proclaimed the breaking-up of the
ice. Great crowds of people thronged the banks, wondering if the bridge
would go out or would stand the strain of pounding icecakes. The
unmistakable note of a robin sounded from somewhere. Great dark
spots began to show in the white ice-ribbon that wound through the
valley. The air at sundown had lost its sting.
So day by day the breaking-up continued until at last the blessed stream
was clear - the bass jumped hungry to the fly - the daffodils and violets
sprang from beneath their wet leaf-blankets - and all the world joined
the birds in one grand song of emancipation and joy.
-
The Big Bend

Above the town, just beyond the red iron bridge, the river made a great
bend and widened into a lake where the banks were willow-grown, and
reeds and rushes and grasses and lily-pads pushed far out into
mid-stream, leaving only a narrow channel of clear water.
To the Big Bend our canoe glided often, paddling lazily along and
going far up-stream to drift back with the current.
Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached deep beneath the surface to
bring up the long-stemmed water-lilies - the great white blossoms, and

the queer little yellow-and-black ones.
Like a blight-eyed sprite the tiny marsh-wren flitted among the rushes,
and the musk-rat built strange reed-castles at the water's edge.
The lace-winged dragon-fly following our boat darted from side to side,
or poised in air, or alighted on the dripping blade of our paddle when it
rested for a moment across our knees.
Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird melodies which only
Boyhood could interpret.
In this place The River sang its love-songs, and sent forth an answering
note to the vast harmonious blending of blue sky and golden day and
incense-heavy air and the glad songs of birds.
And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed to be the self-same
river of the old, loved hymn we sang so often in the Little Church With
The White Steeple - that river which "flows by the throne of God";
fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing
"peace . . . like a river, and glory . . . like a flowing stream."

Christmas

We always used grandmother's stocking - because it was the biggest
one in the family, much larger than mother's, and somehow it seemed
able to stretch more than hers. There was so much room in the foot, too
- a chance for all sorts of packages.
There was a carpet-covered couch against the flowered wall in one
corner of the parlor. Between the foot of it and the chimney, was the
door into our bedroom. I always hung my stocking at the side of the
door nearest the couch, on the theory, well-defined in my mind with
each recurring Christmas, that if by any chance Santa Claus brought me
more than he could get into the stocking, he could pile the overflow on

the couch. And he always did!
It may seem strange that a lad who seldom heard even the third
getting-up call in the morning should have awakened without any
calling once a year - or that his red-night-gowned figure should have
leaped from the depths of his feather bed - or that he should have crept
breathless and fearful to the door where the stocking hung.
Notwithstanding the ripe experience of years past, when each
Christmas found the generous stocking stuffed with good things, there
was always the chance that Santa Claus might have forgotten, this year
- or that he might have miscalculated his supply