Little Darby. An old deserted mill is buried in greenery, the stones furred with moss. Just beyond, a little road dips off to the left, crossing both branches of the stream. Here, where Little Darby churns cascading among great boulders and tiny shelves of sand, one might well be in some mountain elbow of the Poconos. Madrigal and Doggerel gazed tenderly on this shady cavern of wood and water. If it had been an hour earlier, with the sunlight strong upon these private grottoes, a bathe would have been in order. But it was already drawing late.
The Berwyn road, on which the travelers now proceeded, is full of surprises. Great houses crown the hilltops, with rows of slender poplars silhouetted against the sky. Here and there a field of tawny grain lifts a smooth shoulder against blue heaven. A little drinking fountain on a downward grade drops a tinkling dribble of cold water from a carved lion's mouth. Among old willows and buttonwoods stand comely farmhouses—one beside the road is tinted a rich salmon pink. A real estate agent's sign at the entrance to a fine tract says, "For Sale, 47 Acres, with Runing Water." The walkers thought they discerned a message in that. For a rune means a mark of magic significance, a whisper, a secret counsel. And the chiming water of Darby has its own whispers of secret counsel as it runs its merry way, a laughing little river that preaches sermons unawares.
In the meadows near Old St. David's Church—
