short stories
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By the Streamside
As I walk the hills and follow a little path that recedes to the point where two paths blur and join, I hear the sound of a man’s voice. His voice is urgent as he calls his dog but yet he is trying not to be seen. He has white bushy eyebrows which give him a severe owlish gaze.
The Life of the Little Brook
After days of heavy rain the little brook had become dimmed and occluded by a great muddy morass. But now the muffled wind with its waft brought the sound of a slow trickle, having found a heavy boulder it made its first song.
By the Riverside
Here where reeds and waterlilies flourish is a place where herons and kingfishers dwell. In the morning the rain had fallen and hung the leaves with tears, but now the sun is shining bright and as it hits the heavy raindrops they shine like crystals.