WHERE the long reach of gravel and stranded rocks stay their shoreward progress, the ceaseless breaking of the wind-tossed waves is fitting music, while it is yet winter. Such sound was truly out of tune and harsh, for nature everywhere was rugged, and, by the river-shore, the plash of troubled water its only proper spokesman. It has not been long since the stream was ice-bound; when not the narrowest line of bright blue water glinted in the fitful sunlight of a half-cloudy day. The river then seemed dreaming of by-gone centuries, when the plaything of a glacier; but to-day all was glitter, or black as forbidding night, save where the short-lived waves with downy crests stood a brief moment in the golden sunshine, — waves of marvellous beauty that brightened the bleak world about them, albeit dying at their birth.

It is never well to be influenced by such a thought as that the world was made for man, — an idea that forges to the front when Nature appears to seek you out and, thrusting aside the doors of her cabinet, gives generous opportunity to view her gems. Here, where the sloping bank shuts out the chill west wind and a smooth niche in a convenient bowlder proved fitted to my reclining person, the suggestion naturally welled to the surface that something beyond mere chance added the noble outlook. But glacial floods and time's succeeding touch considered only their own whims, and it is well to rest content with the bare fact: it so happened we rambled this far, and, resting, voted time and place a full realization of a lazy man's outing. Let the field and forest behind us entertain those who remained at home; the river alone concerns us.

It is not a forced expression to say that the wind plays with the water. How else adequately describe the changeful surface? A mile away, this is as a mirror breathed upon; while nearer, the rippled flow is dark, a broken band of polished purple steel, or glittering and bright, as shimmering silver. Nowhere is there fixity of light and shade. Not an instant but there is a change of place: the blue-black waters now here, now there; the rippled silver gone ere you can trace it. Let the wind play what pranks it may, the ever-shifting scene is not perplexing; there is enough deliberation to give us chance to follow; and then there is that delightful uncertainty which twits us, and we fall to guessing what the next freak will be.

It is reasonable to ask if water-birds realize these constant variations of light-effects upon the surface of a broad stream. They are comparatively safe at such a time, as one wary wild duck proved to be to-day. It was a brightly-plumaged bird, with a great preponderance of white, set off with black upon the wings, neck, head, and shoulders; a trim bird, at home alike in the air or on the water; one that has no dread of distance; here to-day, in a foreign land to-morrow.

Although gracefully floating near by, this pretty duck often seemed quite in mid-stream, and constantly disappeared, yet without diving. Now flashing into view upon the black water, now standing out in ebon contrast to the white, silvery glitter of a wide waste of water, it never quite took proper shape, but ever left us with a lingering doubt as to its identity. Had not happy chance rewarded our patience, it would still be a matter of uncertainty; but no, it was truly a wild duck, and not a fancy. But the point lies here: Might there not have been at least a companion, if, indeed, not many? Because space only confronts you, count not the landscape empty. Unseen activities are real. A counter-blast, it may be, checked the breeze, and the stilled water gave up its secret. Such a chance — one in ten thousand — clothed in flesh, a trembling speck on the troubled waters; be not over-sure you are alone, even though the coast is very clear. Later, the puff! puff! of a steamboat was heard, and, as the unsightly craft rounded a wooded point, my lone duck was alive to man's proximity at once, and how it had multiplied! A hundred, and not one, rose in the clear air, moved by a common impulse, and, fringing the low line of snowy clouds that marked the horizon, sped northward. Think of it! here in the valley of the Delaware to-day; tomorrow, finding shelter in the rock-bound coves of the New England coast, and at home everywhere.

Were the clouds envious? Rolling in huge masses from the grim, gray east, they filled and chilled the valley at a stroke. How quickly the river responded! There was left but the stern reality of flowing water. If, before, the waves laughed and were boisterous when they kissed the shore, they sobbed now. Inanimate, of course, but happily we need not hold it so; and cannot, indeed, when a mere cloud so strangely checks its merriment. This same river, that laughed and frowned at storm and tempest before man's creation, now seemed cowardly to slink away, as though rebuked and ashamed. The final change from life to death was typified.

However it may be with the more philosophical rambler, the lazy man, when on his outing, has no desire to encounter gloom. The restful couch that the chance bowlder has proved for so long began to grow irksome; the sloping bank sank to the level of the fields; the chill west wind came on apace; there was no longer a sprightly river view, but a mere view of a languid river. Less and less the niched bowlder is a bed of down, and as we shift our aching bones, hoping against hope that the waters will again grow glad, a mist slowly arises to meet the overhanging cloud. At first in curling lines, as though the Indians' camp-fires were not yet quenched; and then with a filmy shroud, enwrapping river, valley, and the distant hills beyond. Why tarry? There is no river-view in the outlook now. The muffled murmur of the changing tide alone assures us that the earth itself has not passed away and left us perched upon a rock in chaos. But is worth acquaintance? That depends. It has never yet had firm hold here; why now? The day is not yet done, and there are to-morrows yet to be. If the river is shut out in spite, let us out-sit the imp that mocks us. Even now, while our thoughts are still with what has been, there is a rift in the clouds; the mist rolls slowly back from whence it came. A ripple of golden light ventures along the shore, — a mighty flood of mellow sunshine fills the valley. There is not a wave but leaps to catch the life-giving glow, as though it would hold it henceforth forever. Why despair? That which has so long abided shall not fail us; the river was a living friend when we came in the morning, and now, in the evening, greets us as heartily. Well may it glow with all its old-time ardor, for the light of every trembling star above it is gathered to its bosom.

So ended our outing by the river. I say “our," for I had a companion, as I supposed; but for hours he has been quite forgotten, and long ago he left me.