A slim foot-bridge stretched across it, now
scarcely above the swollen current. Here I was glad to linger, gazing
and listening, while the storm was in its richest mood--the gray
rain-flood above, the brown river-flood beneath. The language of the
river was scarcely less enchanting than that of the wind and rain; the
sublime overboom of the main bouncing, exulting current, the swash and
gurgle of the eddies, the keen dash and clash of heavy waves breaking
against rocks, and the smooth, downy hush of shallow currents feeling
their way through the willow thickets of the margin. And amid all this
varied throng of sounds I heard the smothered bumping and rumbling of
boulders on the bottom as they were shoving and rolling forward against
one another in a wild rush, after having lain still for probably 100
years or more.
The glad creek rose high above its banks and wandered from its channel
out over many a briery sand-flat and meadow. Alders and willows
waist-deep were bearing up against the current with nervous trembling
gestures, as if afraid of being carried away, while supple branches
bending confidingly, dipped lightly and rose again, as if stroking the
wild waters in play.
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