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."