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Samm
LADY OF THE STREAM
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I remember how my great-grandfather's eyes lit up when my older brothers
and I would burst into his room for a visit at my grandparents' home. I
was only about five, and my brothers, Danny and Mike, were seven and nine.
Great-Grandfather always began his favorite story with the same words.
"I was just a lad me-self when me eyes first beheld the wonder of 'er: the
Lady of the Stream."
The three of us would clamber up on the too-high bed where he lay most of
the time. His smile brightened as we surrounded him, our eyes glued to
him, waiting for him to continue.
"I'd finished me chores early one morn, and I knew the tales about 'er.
Had t'see for me-self. So I made off for the Quiet Place: the pool
between the cliffs, 'neath the pine boughs. I tied off a rope and climbed
down the rock wall, silent as a shadow."
By this time, my brothers and I were spellbound, leaning closer and closer,
not to miss a single syllable of the story we'd heard dozens of times
before.
"I parted the branches as quietly as I could, so I'd not likely scare 'er
off. Had to surprise 'er, y'did. No humans were supposed t'see 'er. I
pulled aside the last pine bough. It was the most magical place I've ever
seen. Green moss clingin' t'the sides of the layered rock. The pool of
mountain water looked black, it was so clear and still. The tall pines
stood in a circle, lettin' the white clouds peek in as they passed
overhead. I looked back at the pool, and there she be. Then, those pines,
they whispered to 'er. They're her friends, the trees are."
We all nodded along.
"Aye, and when she saw me watchin' her, 'twas then I saw her eyes sparkle
like the sunlight dancin' on the stream at her feet. At first, she only
stood there, eyein' me. Then, I thought she were mad at me. But at last,
she smiled, and threw a kiss my way. With a blink of me eye, she ran off,
moving silent as the sunrise. An' to this very day, I know her kiss of
good fortune is still workin' its charms on me."
He swooped us all together and gave each of us a kiss on the head.
© 2002 Susan McLean Russak
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