AN ILLINOIS PRAIRIE HOME.
We had an early start from the hotel next morning. A prospect of the
situation at the upper Janesville dam, from a neighboring bridge,
revealed the fact that the mill-race along the left bank afforded the
easiest portage. Reloading our craft at the boat-renter's staging
where it had passed the night, we darted across the river, under two
low-hung bridges, keeping well out of the overflow current and entered
the race, making our carry over a steep and rocky embankment.
Below, after passing through the centre of the city, the river widens
considerably, as it cuts a deep channel through the fertile prairie,
and taking a sudden bend to the southwest, becomes a lake, formed by
back-water from the lower dam. The wind was now dead ahead again, and
fierce. White caps came savagely rolling up stream. The pull down
brought out the rowing muscles to their fullest tension. The canoe at
times would appear to scarcely creep along, although oars and paddle
would bend to their work.
The race of the carding-mill, which we were now approaching, is by the
left bank, the rest of the broad river--fully a third of a mile wide
here--being stemmed by a ponderous, angling dam, the shorter leg of
which comes dangerously close to the entrance of the race, which it
nearly parallels. Overhead, fifty feet skyward, a great railway bridge
spans the chasm. The disposition of its piers leaves a rowing channel
but two rods wide, next the shore. Through this a deep, swift current
flows, impelling itself for the most part over the short leg of the
chute, with a deafening roar. Its backset, however, is caught in the
yawning mouth of the race. It so happens then that from either side of
an ugly whirling strip of doubting water, parallel with the shorter
chute, the flood bursts forth,--to the left plunging impetuously over
the apron to be dashed to vapor at its foot; to the right madly
rushing into the narrow race, to turn the wheels of the carding-mill
half a mile below. This narrow channel, under the bridge and next the
shore, of which I have spoken, is the only practicable entrance to
the race.
We had landed above and taken a panoramic view of the situation from
the deck of the bridge; afterward had descended to the flood-gates at
the entrance of the race, for detailed inspection and measurements.
One of the set of three gates was partly raised, the bottom being but
three feet above the boiling surface, while the great vertical iron
beams along which the cog-wheels work were not over four feet apart.
It would require steady hands to guide the canoe to the right of the
whirl, where the flood hesitated between two destinations, and finally
to shoot under the uplifted gate, which barely gave room in either
height or breadth for the passage of the boat. But we arrived at the
conclusion that the shoot was far more dangerous in appearance than in
reality, and that it was preferable to a long and exceedingly irksome
portage.
So we determined to make the attempt, and walked back to the canoe.
Disposing our baggage in the centre, as in the barbed-wire experience
of the day before, W---- again took the oars astern and I the paddle
at the bow. A knot of men on the bridge had been watching our
movements with interest, and waved their hats at us as we came
cautiously creeping along the shore. We went under the bridge with a
swoop, waited till we were within three rods of the brink of the
thundering fall, and then strained every muscle in sending the canoe
shooting off at an angle into the waters bound for the race. We went
down to the gate as if shot out of a cannon, but the little craft was
easily controlled, quickly obeying every stroke of the paddle.
Catching a projecting timber, it was easy to guide ourselves to the
opening. We lay down in the bottom of the boat and with uplifted hands
clutched the slimy gate; slowly, hand over hand, we passed through
under the many internal beams and rods of the structure, with the
boiling flood under us, making an echoing roar, amid which we were
obliged to fairly shout our directions to each other. In the last
section the release was given; we were fairly hurled into daylight on
the surface of the mad torrent, and were many a rod down the race
before we could recover our seats. The men on the bridge, joined by
others, now fairly yelled themselves hoarse over the successful close
of what was apparently a hazardous venture, and we waved
acknowledgments with the paddle, as we glided away under the willows
which overhang the long and narrow canal. At the isolated mill, where
there is one of the easiest portages on the route, the hands came
flocking by dozens to the windows to see the craft which had invaded
their quiet domain.
The country toward Beloit becomes more hilly, especially upon the left
bank, along which runs the Chicago and Northwestern railway, all the
way down from Janesville. At the Beloit paper-mill, which was reached
at three o'clock in the afternoon, it was found that owing to the low
stage of water one end of the apron projected above the flood. With
some difficulty as to walking on the slimy incline, we portaged over
the face of the dam and went down stream through the heart of the
pretty little college town, getting more or less picturesque back-door
views of the domestic life of the community.
Beloit being on the State line, we had now entered Illinois. For
several miles the river is placid and shallow, with but a feeble
current. Islands begin to appear, dividing the channel and somewhat
perplexing canoeists, it being often quite difficult to decide which
route is the best; as a rule, one is apt to wish that he had taken
some other than the one selected.
The dam at Rockton was reached in a two hours' pull. It was being
repaired, stone for the purpose being quarried on a neighboring bank
and transported to the scene of action on a flat-boat. We had been
told that we could save several miles by going down the race, which
cuts the base of a long detour. But the boss of the dam-menders
assured us that the race was not safe, and that we would "get in a
trap" if we attempted it. Deeming discretion the better part of valor,
with much difficulty we lifted the canoe over the high, jagged, stone
embankment and through a bit of tangled swamp to the right, and took
the longest way around. It was four or five miles by the bend to the
village of Rockton, whose spires we could see at the dam, rising above
a belt of intervening trees. It being our first detour of note, we
were somewhat discouraged at having had so long a pull for so short a
vantage; but we became well used to such experiences long before our
journey was over. It was not altogether consoling to be informed at
Rockton--which is a smart little manufacturing town of a thousand
souls--that the race was perfectly practicable for canoes, and the
tail portage easy.
Beaching near the base of a fine wagon-bridge which here spans the
Rock, we went up to a cluster of small houses on the bank opposite the
town, to have some tea steeped, our prepared stock being by this time
exhausted. The people were all employed in the paper-mills in the
village, but one good woman chanced to be at home for the afternoon,
and cheerfully responded to our request for service. A young, neat,
and buxom little woman she was, though rather sad-eyed and evidently
overworked in the family struggle for existence. She assured us that
she nowadays never went upon the water in an open boat, for she had
"three times been near drowndid" in her life, which she thought was
"warnin' enough for one body." Inquiry developed that her first
"warnin'" consisted of having been, when she was "a gal down in
Kansis," taken for a row in a leaky boat; the water came in half-way
up to the thwarts, and would have eventually swamped the craft and
drowned its occupants, in perhaps half an hour's time, if her
companion had not luckily bethought himself to run in to shore and
land. Another time, she and her husband were out rowing, when a
stern-wheel river steamer came along, and the swell in her wake washed
the row-boat atop of a log raft, and "she stuck there, ma'am, would ye
believe, and we'd 'a' drowndid sure, with a storm a-comin' up, hadn't
my brother-in-law, that was then a-courtin' of sister Jane, come off
in a dug-out and took us in." Her last and most harrowing experience
was in a boat on the Republican River in Kansas. She and another woman
were out when a storm came up, and white-capped waves tossed the
little craft about at will; but fortunately the blow subsided, and the
women regained pluck enough to take the oars and row home again. The
eyes of the paper-maker's wife were suffused with tears, as, seated in
her rocking-chair by the kitchen stove and giving the teapot an
occasional shake, doubtless to hasten the brew, she related these
thrilling tales of adventure by flood, and called us to witness that
thrice had Providence directly interposed in her behalf. We were
obliged to acknowledge ourselves much impressed with the gravity of
the dangers she had so successfully passed through. Her sympathy with
the perils which we were braving, in what she was pleased to call our
singular journey, was so great that the good woman declined to accept
pay for having steeped our tea in a most excellent manner, and bade us
an affecting God-speed.
We had our supper, graced with the hot tea, on a pretty sward at the
river end of the quiet lane just around the corner; while a dozen
little children in pinafores and short clothes, perched on a
neighboring fence, watched and discussed us as eagerly as though we
were a circus caravan halting by the wayside for refreshment. The
paper-maker's wife also came out, just as we were packing up for the
start, and inspected the canoe in some detail. Her judgment was that
in her giddiest days as an oarswoman, she would certainly never have
dared to set foot in such a shell. She watched us off, just as the sun
was disappearing, and the last Rockton object we saw was our
tenderhearted friend standing on the beach at the end of her lane,
both hands shading her eyes, as she watched us fade away in the
gloaming. I have no doubt she has long ago given us up for lost, for
her last words were, "I've heerd 'em tell it was a riskier river than
any in Kansis, 'tween here an' Missip'; tek care ye don't git
drowndid!"
In the soft evening shadows it was cool enough for heavy wraps. In
fact, for the greater part of the day W---- had worn a light shoulder
cape. We had a beautiful sunset, back of a group of densely timbered
islands. We would have been sorely tempted to camp out on one of
these, but the night was setting in too cold for sleeping in the open
air, and we had no tent with us.
The twilight was nearly spent, and the banks and now frequent islands
were so heavily wooded that on the river it was rapidly becoming too
dark to navigate among the shallows and devious channels. W----
volunteered to get out and look for a farmhouse, for none could be
seen from our hollow way. So she landed and got up into some prairie
wheatfields back away from the bank. After a half-mile's walk parallel
with the river she sighted a prosperous-looking establishment, with a
smart windmill, large barns, and a thrifty orchard, silhouetted
against the fast-fading sunset sky. The signal was given, and the prow
of the canoe was soon resting on a steep, gravely beach at the mouth
of a ravine. Armed with the paddle, for a possible encounter with
dogs, we went up through the orchard and a timothy-field sopping with
dew, scaled the barnyard fence, passed a big black dog that growled
savagely, but was by good chance chained to an old mowing-machine,
walked up to the kitchen door and boldly knocked.
No answer. The stars were coming out, the shadows darkening, night was
fairly upon us, and shelter must be had, if we were obliged to sleep
in the barn. The dog reared on his hind legs, and fairly howled with
rage. A row of well-polished milk-cans on a bench by the windmill
well, and the general air of thrifty neatness impelled us to
persevere. An old German, with kindly face and bushy white hair,
finally came, cautiously peering out beneath a candle which he held
above his head. English he had none, and our German was too fresh from
the books to be reliable in conversation. However, we mustered a few
stereotyped phrases from the "familiar conversations" in the back of
the grammar, which served to make the old man smile, and disappearing
toward the cattle-sheds he soon returned with his daughter and
son-in-law, a cheerful young couple who spoke good English, and
assured us of welcome and a bed. They had been out milking by
lantern-light when interrupted, and soon rejoined us with brimming
pails.
It did not take long to feel quite at home with these simple,
good-hearted folk. They had but recently purchased the farm and were
strangers in the community. The old man lived with his other children
at Freeport, and was there only upon a visit. The young people,
natives of Illinois, were lately married, their wedding-trip having
been made to this house, where they had at once settled down to a
thrifty career, surrounded with quite enough comforts for all
reasonable demands, and a few simple luxuries. W---- declared the
kitchen to be a model of neatness and convenience; and the
sitting-room, where we passed the evening with our modest
entertainers,--who appeared quite well posted on current news of
general importance,--showed evidences of being in daily use. They were
devout Catholics, and I was pleased to find the patriarch drifting
down the river of time with a heartfelt appreciation of the benefits
of democracy, fully cognizant of what American institutions had done
for him and his. Immigrating in the noon-tide of life and settling in
a German neighborhood, he had found no need and had no inclination to
learn our language. But he had prospered from the start, had secured
for his children a good education at the common schools, had imbued
them with the spirit of patriotism, had seen them marry happily and
with a bright future, and at night he never retired without uttering a
bedside prayer of gratitude that God had turned his footsteps to
blessed America. As the old man told me his tale, with his daughter's
hands resting lovingly in his while she served as our interpreter, and
contrasted the hard lot of a German peasant with the independence of
thought and speech and action vouchsafed the German-American farmer,
who can win competence in a state of freedom, I felt a thrill of
patriotism that would have been the making of a Fourth-of-July orator.
I wished that thousands such as he originally was, still dragging out
an existence in the fatherland, could have listened to my aged friend
and followed in his footsteps.