And the sturdy
pine yearned for the wild rose; and the rose, so far as it knew, yearned for
nothing at all, certainly not for rugged pine trees standing tall and grim in
rocky soil. If, in its present stage of development, it gravitated toward
anything in particular, it would have been a well-dressed white birch growing
on an irreproachable lawn.
And the river, now deep, now shallow, now smooth, now tumultuous, now
sparkling in sunshine, now gloomy under clouds, rolled on to the engulfing
sea. It could not stop to concern itself with the petty comedies and tragedies
that were being enacted along its shores, else it would never have reached its
destination. Only last night, under a full moon, there had been pairs of
lovers leaning over the rails of all the bridges along its course; but that
was a common sight, like that of the ardent couples sitting on its shady banks
these summer days, looking only into each other's eyes, but exclaiming about
the beauty of the water. Lovers would come and go, sometimes reappearing with
successive installments of loves in a way wholly mysterious to the river.
Meantime it had its own work to do and must be about it, for the side jams
were to be broken and the boom "let out" at the Edgewood bridge.
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