The Little Robber Girl
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
AMERICAN INDIAN STORIES
Animal Sketches And Stories
Blondine Bonne Biche and Beau Minon
BRER RABBIT and HIS NEIGHBORS
CHINESE MOTHER-GOOSE RHYMES
FABLES FOR CHILDREN
FABLES FROM INDIA
FATHER PLAYS AND MOTHER PLAYS
FIRST STORIES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK
For Classes Ii. And Iii.
For Classes Iv. And V.
For Kindergarten And Class I.
FUN FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK
Good Little Henry
JAPANESE AND OTHER ORIENTAL TALES]
Jean De La Fontaine
King Alexander's Adventures
KINGS AND WARRIORS
LAND AND WATER FAIRIES
Lessons From Nature
LITTLE STORIES that GROW BIG
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MOTHER GOOSE CONTINUED
MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES
MOTHER GOOSE SONGS AND STORIES
Myths And Legends
NEGLECT THE FIRE
ON POPULAR EDUCATION
PLACES AND FAMILIES
Poems Of Nature
RESURRECTION DAY (EASTER)
RHYMES CONCERNING "MOTHER"
RIDING SONGS for FATHER'S KNEE
ROMANCES OF THE MIDDLE AGES
SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY
Selections From The Bible
SLEEPY-TIME SONGS AND STORIES
Some Children's Poets
Songs Of Life
STORIES BY FAVORITE AMERICAN WRITERS
STORIES FOR CHILDREN
STORIES for LITTLE BOYS
STORIES FROM BOTANY
STORIES FROM GREAT BRITAIN
STORIES FROM IRELAND
STORIES FROM PHYSICS
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STORIES _for_ LITTLE GIRLS
THE DAYS OF THE WEEK
The King Of The Golden River; Or, The Black Brothers
The Little Grey Mouse
THE OLD FAIRY TALES
The Princess Rosette
THE THREE HERMITS
THE TWO OLD MEN
UNCLES AND AUNTS AND OTHER RELATIVES
VERSES ABOUT FAIRIES
WHAT MEN LIVE BY
WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO
The Stream That Ran Away
from Good Stories For Great Holidays
- MAY DAY
BY MARY AUSTIN (ADAPTED)
In a short and shallow canyon running eastward toward the sun, one may
find a clear, brown stream called the Creek of Pinon Pines; that is not
because it is unusual to find pinon trees in that country, but because
there are so few of them in the canyon of the stream. There are all
sorts higher up on the slopes,--long-leaved yellow pines, thimble cones,
tamarack, silver fir, and Douglas spruce; but in the canyon there
is only a group of the low-headed, gray nut pines which the earliest
inhabitants of that country called pinons.
The Canyon of Pinon Pines has a pleasant outlook and lies open to the
sun. At the upper end there is no more room by the stream border than
will serve for a cattle trail; willows grow in it, choking the path
of the water; there are brown birches here and ropes of white clematis
tangled over thickets of brier rose.
Low down, the ravine broadens out to inclose a meadow the width of a
lark's flight, blossomy and wet and good. Here the stream ran once in a
maze of soddy banks and watered all the ground, and afterward ran out at
the canyon's mouth across the mesa in a wash of bone-white boulders as
far as it could. That was not very far, for it was a slender stream. It
had its source on the high crests and hollows of the near-by mountain,
in the snow banks that melted and seeped downward through the rocks. But
the stream did not know any more of that than you know of what happened
to you before you were born, and could give no account of itself except
that it crept out from under a great heap of rubble far up in the Canyon
of the Pinon Pines.
And because it had no pools in it deep enough for trout, and no trees on
its borders but gray nut pines; because, try as it might, it could never
get across the mesa to the town, the stream had fully made up its mind
to run away.
"Pray, what good will that do you?" said the pines. "If you get to
the town, they will turn you into an irrigating ditch, and set you to
"As to that," said the stream, "if I once get started I will not stop at
Then it would fret between its banks until the spangled frills of the
mimulus were all tattered with its spray. Often at the end of the summer
it was worn quite thin and small with running, and not able to do more
than reach the meadow.
"But some day," it whispered to the stones, "I shall run quite away."
If the stream had been inclined for it, there was no lack of good
company on its own borders. Birds nested in the willows, rabbits came to
drink; one summer a bobcat made its lair up the bank opposite the brown
birches, and often the deer fed in the meadow.
In the spring of one year two old men came up into the Canyon of Pinon
Pines. They had been miners and partners together for many years. They
had grown rich and grown poor, and had seen many hard places and strange
times. It was a day when the creek ran clear and the south wind smelled
of the earth. Wild bees began to whine among the willows, and the meadow
bloomed over with poppy-breasted larks.
Then said one of the old men: "Here is good meadow and water enough; let
us build a house and grow trees. We are too old to dig in the mines."
"Let us set about it," said the other; for that is the way with two who
have been a long time together,--what one thinks of, the other is for
So they brought their possessions, and they built a house by the water
border and planted trees. One of the men was all for an orchard but the
other preferred vegetables. So they did each what he liked, and were
never so happy as when walking in the garden in the cool of the day,
touching the growing things as they walked, and praising each other's
They were very happy for three years. By this time the stream had become
so interested it had almost forgotten about running away. But every year
it noted that a larger bit of the meadow was turned under and planted,
and more and more the men made dams and ditches by which to turn the
water into their gardens.
"In fact," said the stream, "I am being made into an irrigating ditch
before I have had my fling in the world. I really must make a start."
That very winter, by the help of a great storm, the stream went roaring
down the meadow, over the mesa, and so clean away, with only a track of
muddy sand to show the way it had gone.
All that winter the two men brought water for drinking from a spring,
and looked for the stream to come back. In the spring they hoped still,
for that was the season they looked for the orchard to bear. But no
fruit grew on the trees, and the seeds they planted shriveled in the
earth. So by the end of summer, when they understood that the water
would not come back at all, they went sadly away.
Now the Creek of Pinon Pines did not have a happy time. It went out in
the world on the wings of the storm, and was very much tossed about and
mixed up with other waters, lost and bewildered.
Everywhere it saw water at work, turning mills, watering fields,
carrying trade, falling as hail, rain, and snow; and at the last, after
many journeys it found itself creeping out from under the rocks of the
same old mountain, in the Canyon of Pinon Pines.
"After all, home is best," said the little stream to itself, and ran
about in its choked channels looking for old friends.
The willows were there, but grown shabby and dying at the top; the
birches were quite dead, and there was only rubbish where the white
clematis had been. Even the rabbits had gone away.
The little stream ran whimpering in the meadow, fumbling at the ruined
ditches to comfort the fruit trees which were not quite dead. It was
very dull in those days living in the Canyon of Pinon Pines.
"But it is really my own fault," said the stream. So it went on
repairing the borders as best it could.
About the time the white clematis had come back to hide the ruin of the
brown birches, a young man came and camped with his wife and child in
the meadow. They were looking for a place to make a home.
"What a charming place!" said the young wife; "just the right distance
from town, and a stream all to ourselves. And look, there are fruit
trees already planted. Do let us decide to stay!"
Then she took off the child's shoes and stockings to let it play in
the stream. The water curled all about the bare feet and gurgled
"Ah, do stay," begged the happy water. "I can be such a help to you, for
I know how a garden should be irrigated in the best manner."
The child laughed, and stamped the water up to his bare knees. The young
wife watched anxiously while her husband walked up and down the stream
border and examined the fruit trees.
"It is a delightful place," he said, "and the soil is rich, but I am
afraid the water cannot be depended upon. There are signs of a great
drought within the last two or three years. Look, there is a clump of
birches in the very path of the stream, but all dead; and the largest
limbs of the fruit trees have died. In this country one must be able
to make sure of the water-supply. I suppose the people who planted them
must have abandoned the place when the stream went dry. We must go on
So they took their goods and the child and went on farther.
"Ah, well," said the stream, "that is what is to be expected when has a
reputation for neglecting one's duty. But I wish they had stayed. That
baby and I understood each other."
It had made up its mind not to run away again, though it could not be
expected to be quite cheerful after all that had happened. If you go to
the Canyon of Pinon Pines you will notice that the stream, where it goes
brokenly about the meadow, has a mournful sound.
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