When they came to the New World, at a time so far gone from us that no
dead nation even has left of it any record, they found the river flowing
as strangely silent and pure as now, and the name they gave it,
Wissahickon, it bears to-day. The hills are there as when they first saw
them, wrapping themselves every year in heavier mantles of hemlocks and
cedars; but a shaded road winds now gravely by the river-side, and along
it the city sends out those who are tired, worn out, and need to hear
that message of the river. No matter how dull their heads or hearts may
be, they never fail to catch something of its meaning. So quiet it is
there, so pure, it is like being born again, they say. So, all the time,
in the cool autumn-mornings, in the heavy lull of noon, or with the low
harvest-moon slanting blue and white shadows, sharp and uncanny, across
its surface, the water flows steadily from its dark birthplace, clear,
cheerful, bright. The hills crouch attentive on its edge, shaggy with
shadows; from the grim rocks ferns and mosses sleep out delicate color
unmolested, the red-bearded grass drops its seed unshaken. The
sweetbrier trails its pink fingers through the water.
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