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 delightedly. “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 farther.” 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. THE ELVES AN IROQUOIS LEGEND BY HARRIET MAXWELL CONVERSE (ADAPTED)