This quality comes only
after the axe and the saw have let the sunlight into the dense tangle
and have scattered the falling timber, or the round of the water-wheel
has divided the rush of the brook. It is so here. Some hundred years
ago, along this quiet, silvery stream were encamped the troops of the
struggling colonies, and, later, the great estates of the survivors
stretched on each side for miles. The willows that now fringe these
banks were saplings then; and they and the great butternuts were only
spared because their arching limbs shaded the cattle knee-deep along the
shelving banks.
Then came the long interval that succeeds that deadly conversion of the
once sweet farming lands, redolent with clover, into that barren
waste--suburban property. The conflict that had lasted since the days
when the pioneer's axe first rang through the stillness of the forest
was nearly over; Nature saw her chance, took courage, and began that
regeneration which is exclusively her own. The weeds ran riot; tall
grasses shot up into the sunlight, concealing the once well-trimmed
banks; and great tangles of underbrush and alders made lusty efforts to
hide the traces of man's unceasing cruelty. Lastly came this little
group of poor people from the Seine and the Marne and lent a helping
hand, bringing with them something of their old life at home,--their
boats, rude landings, patched-up water-stairs, fences, arbors, and
vine-covered cottages,--unconsciously completing the picture and adding
the one thing needful--a human touch.
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