It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the
night, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the
golden moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said to
him, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue.
And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed
with his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on.
With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she
stimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties
that life and nature offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was his
teacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery
and knowledge of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the
true aim and end of all right teaching.
So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of
varied green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and there
of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand,
and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after
an hour of most interesting talk, "Brian, why in the world don't you
write a book?"
"'A book'!" exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone.
Judy laughed. "He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one."
"I am in earnest, Brian," said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining
with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement.
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