Jody drew a deep breath. He threw himself on the weedy sand close to the water and abandoned himself to the magic of motion. Up, over, down, up, over, down--the flutter-mill was enchanting. The bubbling spring would rise forever from the earth, the thin current was endless. The spring was the beginning of waters sliding to the sea. Unless leaves fell, or squirrels cut sweet bay twigs to drop and block the fragile wheel, the flutter-mill might turn forever. When he was an old man, as old as his father, there seemed no reason why this rippling movement might not continue as he had begun it.
The Yearling, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
1938, illustrator N.C. Wyeth
from Gutenberg of Australia
2 comments:
And this- this one is for your mama, too. How I love that picture, that book. Thank-you.
Me, too. I actually had this one saved to my computer from way back, noticed it today, and figured I should post it.
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