Perhaps we were not things of beauty
either, seen through the dim perspective of rain and mud. No
doubt our faces had the appearance of sailors huddled up on
quarter-deck benches, silent and fearful of seasickness. At
last, after many vicissitudes and narrow escapes, we reached a
fine macadam road and breathed more easily and enjoyed the
scenery a bit better.
We followed a stream whose sudden and continued windings was a
never-ending delight. Its clear, cold, foam-flecked water, seen
through fringes of elm, maple and willow trees, compensated in
great measure for the discomforts we endured. It was not fringed
with reeds and lush grass, but its full flow rolled forth
undiminished, going to its source as surely as we were bound to
arrive at our destination. We discovered many points of beauty
all along the way which were not blotted out by rain or cloud,
and which shone freshly and winningly under the touch of the sun
that peeped from behind the flying clouds.
The banks of the stream were draped with clumps of foliage
overrun with wild grape and bittersweet, making fantastic
pergolas from which the clear ringing challenge of the cardinal
or the bold bugle of the Carolina wren came to us above the rush
of the waters. Just a tantalizing struggle between mist and
sunshine for perhaps an hour revealed bits of fair blue sky
overhead and clouds of vapor resting on the long wooded hills.
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