“Tell us about the rivers.”
The youth was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he began.
“The little streams that come from the mountains so far away and rush through the forest are always talking, always babbling. They are never silent. Have you not noticed that?”
“Yes, and they are always in a hurry,” came the prompt reply. “What are they saying?”
“They are praying,'Father of Waters,' they are pleading, 'wait for us and take us into your arms and carry us away with you to the great sea where the land ends. We are small and cannot travel the distance alone; the hungry ground would drink us up or the wind would dry us up. But in your embrace we will safely reach our home.'”
“Tell us, Oomah,” one of the boys said in an awestruck tone, “are there still greater rivers than the Father of Waters we know?”
“The Father of Waters is but as a drop compared to the great sea into which it empties,” Oomah said wistfully. “It is so large that there is no other side. The fish in it are bigger than the tallest tree and when the wind blows the waves are high as mountains.”
“Oh, did you see these things Oomah,” the eager listeners asked.
“No,” came the reply, regretfully.
“Then, who did see them? Who told you of them?”