FROM SPRING TO RIVULET.

Still dances the brook with its murmurs gay, Down through the woods and under the way, Splashing o’er rocks,—through meadow agleam, To lose itself in the larger stream. It passes a laugh with ferns that peer To see their forms in its waters clear; It meets a rock, and dashes spray At moss and lichens that light its gray; And yet, as it nears where violets hide ’Neath soughing pines, its waters glide With hardly a sound, lest the tender flower Should feel, in its haste, too hard a shower. But ever it sings, be it night or day, Year after year, in the selfsame way, “Here I tinkle, and there I dash, I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash; Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I, Singing along ’neath a summer sky!”

But just as gay as it is in June Is the brook as it sings its winter tune. Jack Frost makes his call,—and droop the ferns; Again and again the sprite returns, Till over the pool beneath the pines A magical covering gleams and shines. Now hide and seek does the brooklet play, For it dashes forth once more on its way, Again to be hidden beneath the snow, That gives no hint of the songster below. But the grand old trees that love it well, And the winter bird,—they both can tell That ever it sings, as it sang of old, When winds are bleak and days are cold, “Here I tinkle, and there I dash, I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash; Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I, Singing along when snowflakes fly!” —Grace E. Harlow.