Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird melodies which only Boyhood could interpret.

In this place The River sang its love-songs, and sent forth an answering note to the vast harmonious blending of blue sky and golden day and incense-heavy air and the glad songs of birds.

And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed to be the self-same river of the old, loved hymn we sang so often in the Little Church With The White Steeple — that river which “flows by the throne of God”; fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing “peace . . . like a river, and glory . . . like a flowing stream.”

Christmas

We always used grandmother’s stocking — because it was the biggest one in the family, much larger than mother’s, and somehow it seemed able to stretch more than hers.  There was so much room in the foot, too — a chance for all sorts of packages.

There was a carpet-covered couch against the flowered wall in one corner of the parlor.  Between the foot of it and the chimney, was the door into our bedroom.  I always hung my stocking at the side of the door nearest the couch, on the theory, well-defined in my mind with each recurring Christmas, that if by any chance Santa Claus brought me more than he could get into the stocking, he could pile the overflow on the couch.  And he always did!

It may seem strange that a lad who seldom heard even the third getting-up call in the morning should have awakened without any calling once a year — or that his red-night-gowned figure should have leaped from the depths of his feather bed — or that he should have crept breathless and fearful to the door where the stocking hung.  Notwithstanding the ripe experience of years past, when each Christmas found the generous stocking stuffed with good things, there was always the chance that Santa Claus might have forgotten, this year — or that he might have miscalculated his supply and not have enough to go ’round — or that he had not been correctly informed as to just what you wanted — or that some accident, might have befallen his reindeer-and-sleigh to detain him until the grey dawn of Christmas morning stopped his work and sent him scurrying back to his toy kingdom to await another Yule-tide.

And so, in the fearful silence and darkness of that early hour, with stilled breath and heart beating so loudly you thought it would awaken everyone in the house, You softly opened the door — poked your arm through — felt around where the stocking ought to be, but with a great sinking in your heart when you didn’t find it the first time — and finally your chubby fist clutched the misshapen, lumpy, bulging fabric that proclaimed a generous Santa Claus.

Yes, it was there!