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Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the banks； a
solitary not alone。 In the quiet evening light I watch the stream 'never
hasting； never resting'： the grass that grows beside it is always green； the
flowers are fresh； it makes long embracing curves … I could cross from
point to point in a minute； but to follow takes five。 The ways of the
water are ways of healing； I have a companion who makes no mistakes；
touches none of my tender spots。
Presently I reach the silent pool； where the stream takes a wide sweep。
Here the fair white water…lilies lie on their broad green leaves and wait for
their lover the moon； for then they open their silvery leaves and bloom in
the soft light fairer far than beneath the hot rays of the sun。 Then； too；
the buds rise out of the water and the moon kisses them into bloom and
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fragrance。 Near by are the little yellow water…lilies； set for beauty against
a background of great blue…eyed forget…me…nots and tall feathery
meadowsweet。 The river still sweeps on its way； 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
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The Grey Brethren
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
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and pixy our eyes are too dull to see； and of queer little hillmen with
foreign ways and terror of all human beings。 Their banks are bright with
tormentil； blue with forget…me…not； rich in treasures of starry moss； the
water is cl