Rushing, gushing, limping, trickling, dipping up and down, the little brook runs. All through winter, all through summer, through autumn and spring. It always burbles and chuckles, running along its merry way.

Its cool, clear, bright, crisp moisture relief to the weary travler; amusement to the young child; mirth to the day dreamer.

Ah yes, that lovely little brook, chuckling and singing down its merry way.

Do you know its name? You can't: it has none. It passes foe and friends, stranger, companion; nameless. No one can give the happy brook a name: none woud fit it. None would match it's happy dance and wordless song. Its bright clear eyes, its lived beauty. Nay. You cannot give it a proper name. A name to last all ages. No dear friend, it cannot be done. I have watched them all try to name it. They never suceed.

Who am I? I am the one who from the brook's lively water lives. Its sweet and happy waters. I watch it by day. I watch it by night. I watch it through all the seasons. Yes I watch it alway. But who am I? that lives from its waters and watches always? I am the old oak; who stands by the rippling, dancing, ever youthful water of the lovely brook.

I was planted years before your time. Years before your father's time. Years before you grandfather's time; yet still, I am younger than the rippling little brook.

My boughs are heavy; me leaves are thinning. I am old and weak; yet younger than the brook.

Yet though I am old and weak, my elder Brook, is young and lively. Jumping, rolling, dancing, singing, laughing, at the foolish young. My elder Brook, so clear and bright, so lively and wild, or smoothly bright. When I have left this world, my elder Brook will laugh and rumble on.