The river was light and life and music and companionship to her.  She learned to row herself about upon it, to swim boldly in it, for it had sheltered nooks but a little way above The Poplars.  But there was more than that in it,—­it was infinitely sympathetic.  A river is strangely like a human soul.  It has its dark and bright days, its troubles from within, and its disturbances from without.  It often runs over ragged rocks with a smooth surface, and is vexed with ripples as it slides over sands that are level as a floor.  It betrays its various moods by aspects which are the commonplaces of poetry, as smiles and dimples and wrinkles and frowns.  Its face is full of winking eyes, when the scattering rain-drops first fall upon it, and it scowls back at the storm-cloud, as with knitted brows, when the winds are let loose.  It talks, too, in its own simple dialect, murmuring, as it were, with busy lips all the way to the ocean, as children seeking the mother’s breast and impatient of delay.  Prisoners who know what a flower or an insect has been to them in their solitary cell, invalids who have employed their vacant minds in studying the patterns of paper-hangings on the walls of their sick-chambers, can tell what the river was to the lonely, imaginative creature who used to sit looking into its depths, hour after hour, from the airy height of the Fire-hang-bird’s Nest.

Of late a thought had mingled with her fancies which had given to the river the aspect of something more than a friend and a companion.  It appeared all at once as a Deliverer.  Did not its waters lead, after long wanderings, to the great highway of the world, and open to her the gates of those cities from which she could take her departure unchallenged towards the lands of the morning or of the sunset?  Often, after a freshet, she had seen a child’s miniature boat floating down on its side past her window, and traced it in imagination back to some crystal brook flowing by the door of a cottage far up a blue mountain in the distance.  So she now began to follow down the stream the airy shallop that held her bright fancies.  These dreams of hers were colored by the rainbows of an enchanted fountain,—­the books of adventure, the romances, the stories which fortune had placed in her hands,—­the same over which the heart of the Pride of the County had throbbed in the last century, and on the pages of some of which the traces of her tears might still be seen.

The literature which was furnished for Myrtle’s improvement was chiefly of a religious character, and, however interesting and valuable to those to whom it was adapted, had not been chosen with any wise regard to its fitness for her special conditions.  Of what use was it to offer books like the “Saint’s Rest” to a child whose idea of happiness was in perpetual activity?  She read “Pilgrim’s Progress,” it is true, with great delight.  She liked the idea of travelling with a pack on one’s back, the odd shows at the House of the interpreter, the fighting, the adventures, the pleasing young ladies at the palace the name of which was Beautiful, and their very interesting museum of curiosities.  As for the allegorical meaning, it went through her consciousness like a peck of wheat through a bushel measure with the bottom out, without touching.