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Updated: May 22, 2025
Shelley describes it as one of the flowers growing with the sensitive plant in that garden where: "The pied wind flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die at their own dear loveliness."
"Never mind, my lads," cried the captain at last: "it's getting late, and there's a capital camping-place ashore. Wade, some of you, and lighten the boats so as to run 'em in. You, Dan, and a couple more see to your fire. There don't seem to be any of those flippers in the water here. Stream's too swift for them."
He put into her hands the loose bunch of syringa and rose plucked for her in the Purdies' garden, laid his hat and gloves on the parapet; then, with an eye for the better bank, walked to the end of the bridge. She watched him descending the steep bank and issuing into the broad shallow basin of the stream's way.
"I thought we had been crossing it for the past hour," I was feminine enough to gasp. "Oh, yes, them's forks of it; but the main stream's on ahead, and it's mighty treacherous, too," was the calm reply. When we reached the Snake River, there was no doubt that the others were mere forks.
But a brook o'er the plain was pursuing its course, That swelled by the mountain stream's headlong force, Barred the wanderer's steps with its current; So the priest on one side the blest sacrament put, And his sandal with nimbleness drew from his foot, That he safely might pass through the torrent."
Slowly and with dignified, almost unwilling step Running Stream approached. As he began to move, but not before, Cameron went to meet him. "I wish to talk with you," said Cameron in a quiet firm tone. "Huh," grunted Running Stream. "I have a matter of importance to speak to you about," continued Cameron. Running Stream's keen glance searched his face somewhat anxiously.
Why has Yarrow been so much more besung than Tweed, in spite of the greater stream's far greater and more varied loveliness? The fatal duel in the Dowie Dens of Yarrow and the lamented drowning of Willie there have given the stream its 'pastoral melancholy, and engaged Wordsworth in the renown of the water. For the poetry of Tweed we have chiefly, after Scott, to thank Mr.
And the stream's soft, musical murmur that penetrates to the remotest corner of my cozy nest! And the fragrant, healthful scent of the pines that fills the whole house! And the air, this pure exhilarating mountain air! Ah! is not that the very best of physicians? When one needs him one has only to open the window and in he comes and makes you well without cutting off your rations."
At my feet ran a rapid mountain torrent, its bed choked with ice-covered rocks; I had been lulled to sleep by the stream's splashing murmur, and the loud moaning of the wind along the naked cliffs. At dawn I rose and shook myself free of the buffalo robe, coated with hoar-frost. The ashes of the fire were lifeless; in the dim morning the air was bitter cold.
It is only then that she finds out herself, comes to her true self, grows strong.... In the letters of her friend far away she finds a support for herself; in her own, she, very likely for the first time, finds full self-expression.... But as two people who start from a stream's source, along opposite banks, at first can touch hands, then only communicate by voice, and finally lose sight of each other altogether; so two natures grow apart at last by separation.
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