Wondering if the ouzel's boulder had been rolled away, or if the deep hole above it, where the mill men caught trout, had been filled with wash, I decided to go at once and see, and then return for a final look about the forks. Yes, the boulder was missing, apparently buried, for the hole was earth-filled and the trout gone. So it was evident that forests were helpful even to the fish in the streams. I took off my hat to the trees and started back to the junction. On the way I resolved to tell the men in the mill that a tree is the most useful thing that grows, and that floods may be checked by forests.
The storm was over and the clouds were retreating. On a fallen log that lay across the main stream I lingered and watched the dark and white waters mingle. The white stream was slowly rising, while the dark one was rapidly falling. In a few days the one from the barren slopes would be hardly alive, while the other from among the trees would be singing a song full of strength as it swept on toward the sea.
The forest-born stream is the useful and beautiful one. It has a steady flow of clear water, and fishermen cheerfully come to its green, mossy banks. The buildings along its course are safe from floods, and are steadily served with the power of its reliable flow; its channel is free from mud and full of water; it allows the busy boats of commerce freely to come and go; in countless ways it serves the activities of man. It never causes damage, and always enriches and gladdens the valley through which it flows on to the sea.
A song roused me from my revery. The sky was almost clear, and the long, ragged shadows of the nearest peaks streamed far toward the east. Not a breath of air stirred. Far away a hermit thrush was singing, while a thousand spruces stood and listened. In the midst of this a solitaire on the top of a pine tree burst out in marvelous melody.