or foliage to hide them;
they are full to the brim, and fuller; they catch and reflect the
sunbeams, and are about the only objects of life and motion in nature.
The trees stand so still, the fields are so hushed and naked, the
mountains so exposed and rigid, that the eye falls upon the blue,
sparkling, undulating watercourses with a peculiar satisfaction. By
and by the grass and trees will be waving, and the streams will be
shrunken and hidden, and our delight will not be in them. The still
ponds and lakelets will then please us more.

The little brown brooks,--how swift and full they ran! One fancied
something gleeful and hilarious in them. And the large creeks,--how
steadily they rolled on, trailing their ample skirts along the edges
of the fields and marshes, and leaving ragged patches of water here
and there! Many a gentle slope spread, as it were, a turfy apron in
which reposed a little pool or lakelet. Many a stream sent little
detachments across lots, the sparkling water seeming to trip lightly
over the unbroken turf. Here and there an oak or an elm stood
knee-deep in a clear pool, as if rising from its bath. It gives one a
fresh, genial feeling to see such a bountiful supply of pure, running
water. One's desires and affinities go out toward the full streams.
How many a parched place they reach and lap in one's memory! How many
a vision of naked pebbles and sun-baked banks they cover and blot
out! They give eyes to the fields; they give dimples and laughter;
they give light and motion. _Running water!_ What a delightful
suggestion the words always convey! One's thoughts and sympathies are
set flowing by them; they unlock a fountain of pleasant fancies and
associations in one's memory; the imagination is touched and
refreshed.

March water is usually clean, sweet water; every brook is a
trout-brook, a mountain brook; the cold and the snow have supplied the
condition of a high latitude; no stagnation, no corruption, comes
downstream now as on a summer freshet. Winter comes down, liquid and
repentant. Indeed, it is more than water that runs then: it is frost
subdued; it is spring triumphant. No obsolete watercourses now. The
larger creeks seek out their abandoned beds, return to the haunts of
their youth, and linger fondly there. The muskrat is adrift, but not
homeless; his range is vastly extended, and he evidently rejoices in
full streams. Through the tunnel of the meadow-mouse the water rushes
as through a p