The legend that from this cliff an Indian lover on
his favorite pony once leaped to the creek a hundred feet below and a
mighty funeral ceremony was held at the Indian mound a little farther
down the valley seems to be attested both by the cliff and the mound.
Before I have gone very far I am unconcernedly conscious that I
have not the slightest idea in which direction lies the nearest road
home, nor how far I have come. But I know that somewhere down the
lavender-veiled valley the creek and myself shall reach the river at
last and all will be well. There are so many beautiful things to see
on the way that I would not hasten if I could. Life and the future is
much like that.
* * * * *
There is a pleasant constancy in the companionship of a creek. It is
always at home when I call, always seems to wear a smile of welcome,
always has something new to offer in the way of entertainment. And it
is changeless through the years. If I were to return some September
afternoon after an absence of half a lifetime I should expect to see a
green heron fly up the creek when I reached this particular bend and
to find the kingfisher in his accustomed place on the bare branch of
this patriarchal oak. At the next bend, where the current has cut the
bank straight down I should look for the rows of holes made by the
little colony of bank swallows.
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