Everywhere it saw water at work, turning
mills, watering fields, carrying trade, falling as
hail, rain, and snow; and at the last, after many
journeys it found itself creeping out from under
the rocks of the same old mountain, in the Canyon
of Pinon Pines.
``After all, home is best,'' said the little stream
to itself, and ran about in its choked channels
looking for old friends.
The willows were there, but grown shabby and
dying at the top; the birches were quite dead, and
there was only rubbish where the white clematis
had been. Even the rabbits had gone away.
The little stream ran whimpering in the meadow,
fumbling at the ruined ditches to comfort the
fruit trees which were not quite dead. It was
very dull in those days living in the Canyon of
Pinon Pines.
``But it is really my own fault,'' said the
stream. So it went on repairing the borders as
best it could.
About the time the white clematis had come
back to hide the ruin of the brown birches, a
young man came and camped with his wife and
child in the meadow. They were looking for a
place to make a home.
``What a charming place!'' said the young
wife; ``just the right distance from town, and a
stream all to ourselves. And look, there are fruit
trees already planted. Do let us decide to stay!''
Then she took off the child's shoes and stockings
to let it play in the stream.
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