GRAND DETOUR FOLKS.
We tramped back to the bridge in high spirits next morning, over the
flower-strewn prairie. The section-man's wife was on hand, with her
entire step-laddered brood of six, to see us off. As we carried down
our traps to the beach and repacked, she kept up a continuous strain
of talk, giving us a most edifying review of her life, and especially
the particulars of how she and her "man" had first romantically met,
while he was a gravel-train hand on a far western railroad, and she
the cook in a portable construction-barracks.
Stillman's Creek opens into the Rock from the east, through a pleasant
glade, a few rods below the bridge. We took a pull up this historic
tributary for a half-mile or more. It is a muddy stream, some two and
a half rods wide, cutting down for a half-dozen feet through the black
soil. The shores are generally well fringed with heavy timber,
especially upon the northern bank, while the land to the south and
southwest stretches upward, in gentle slopes, to a picturesque rolling
prairie, abounding in wooded knolls. It was in the large grove on the
north bank, near its junction with the Rock, that Black Hawk, in the
month of May, 1832, parleyed with the Pottawattomies. It was here that
on the 14th of that month he learned of the treachery of Stillman's
militiamen, and at once made that famous sally with his little band of
forty braves which resulted in the rout of the cowardly whites, who
fled pell-mell over the prairie toward Dixon, asserting that Black
Hawk and two thousand blood-thirsty warriors were sweeping northern
Illinois with the besom of destruction. The country round about
appears to have undergone no appreciable change in the half-century
intervening between that event and to-day. The topographical
descriptions given in contemporaneous accounts of Stillman's flight
will hold good now, and we were readily able to pick out the points of
interest on the old battlefield.
Returning to the Rock, we made excellent progress. The atmosphere was
bracing; and there being a favoring northwest breeze, our awning was
stretched over a hoop for a sail. The banks were now steep inclines of
white sand and gravel. It was like going through a railroad cut. But
in ascending the sides, as we did occasionally, to secure supplies
from farm-houses or refill our canteen with fresh water, there were
found broad expanses of rolling prairie. The farm establishments
increase in number and prosperity. Windmills may be counted by the
scores, the cultivation of enormous cornfields is everywhere in
progress, and cattle are more numerous than ever.
Three or four miles above Oregon the banks rise to the dignity of
hills, which come sweeping down "with verdure clad" to the very
water's edge, and present an inspiring picture, quite resembling some
of the most charming stretches of the Hudson. At the entrance to this
lovely vista we encountered a logy little pleasure-steamer anchored in
the midst of the stream, which is here nearly half of a mile wide, for
the river now perceptibly broadens. The captain, a ponderous old
sea-dog, wearing a cowboy's hat and having the face of an operatic
pirate, with a huge pipe between his black teeth, sat lounging on the
bulwark, watching the force of the current, into which he would
listlessly expectorate. He was at first inclined to be surly, as we
hauled alongside and checked our course; but gradually softened down
as we drew him out in conversation, and confided to us that he had in
earlier days "sailed the salt water," a circumstance of which he
seemed very proud. He also gave us some "pointers on the lay o' the
land," as he called them, for our future guidance down the river,--one
of which was that there were "dandy sceneries" below Oregon, in
comparison with which we had thus far seen nothing worthy of note. As
for himself, he said that his place on the neighboring shore was
connected by telephone with Oregon, and his steamer frequently
transported pleasure parties to points of interest above the dam.
Ganymede Spring is on the southeast bank, at the base of a lofty
sandstone bluff, a mile or so above Oregon. From the top of the bluff,
which is ascended by a succession of steep flights of scaffolding
stairs, a magnificent bird's-eye view is attainable of one of the
finest river and forest landscapes in the Mississippi basin. The
grounds along the riverside at the base are laid out in graceful
carriage drives; and over the head of a neatly hewn basin, into which
gushes the copious spring, is a marble slab thus inscribed:
_______________________________________________
| |
| GANYMEDE'S SPRINGS, |
| |
| named by |
| |
| MARGERET FULLER (Countess D. Ossoli,) |
| |
| who named this bluff |
| |
| EAGLE'S NEST, |
| |
| & beneath the cedars on its crest wrote |
| |
| "Ganymede to his Eagle," |
| |
| July 4, 1843. |
|_____________________________________________|
Oregon was reached just before noon. A walk through the business
quarter revealed a thrifty, but oldish-looking town of about two
thousand inhabitants. The portage on the east side, around a
flouring-mill dam, involved a hard pull up the gravelly bank thirty
feet high, and a haul of two blocks' length along a dusty street.
There was a fine stretch of eroded palisades in front of the island on
which we lunched. The color effect was admirable,--patches of gray,
brown, white, and old gold, much corroded with iron. Vines of many
varieties dangle from earth-filled crevices, and swallows by the
hundreds occupy the dimples neatly hollowed by the action of the water
in some ancient period when the stream was far broader and deeper than
now.
But at times, even in our day, the Rock is a raging torrent. The
condition of the trees along the river banks and on the thickly-strewn
island pastures, shows that not many months before it must have been
on a wild rampage, for the great trunks are barked by the ice to the
height of fifteen feet above the present water-level. Everywhere, on
banks and islands, are the evidences of disastrous floods, and the
ponderous ice-breakers above the bridges give one an awesome notion of
the condition of affairs at such a time. Farmers assured us that in
the spring of 1887 the water was at the highest stage ever recorded in
the history of the valley. Many of the railway bridges barely escaped
destruction, while the numerous river ferries and the low country
bridges in the bayous were destroyed by scores. The banks were
overflowed for miles together, and back in the country for long
distances, causing the hasty removal of families and live-stock from
the bottoms; while ice jams, forming at the heads of the islands,
would break, and the shattered floes go sweeping down with terrific
force, crushing the largest trees like reeds, tearing away fences and
buildings, covering islands and meadows with deep deposits of sand and
mud, blazing their way through the forested banks, and creating sad
havoc on every hand. We were amply convinced, by the thousands of
broken trees which littered our route, the snags, the mud-baked
islands, the frequent stretches of sadly demoralized bank that had not
yet had time to reweave its charitable mantle of verdure, that the
Rock, on such a spring "tear," must indeed be a picture of chaos
broken loose. This explained why these hundreds of beautiful and
spacious islands--many of them with charming combinations of forest
and hillock and meadow, and occasionally enclosing pretty ponds
blushing with water-lilies--are none of them inhabited, but devoted to
the pasture of cattle, who swim or ford the intervening channels,
according to the stage of the flood; also why the picturesque bottoms
on the main shore are chiefly occupied by the poorest class of
farmers, who eke out their meagre incomes with the spoils of the gun
and line.
It was a quarter of five when we beached at the upper ferry-landing at
Grand Detour. It is a little, tumble-down village of one or two small
country stores, a church, and a dozen modest cottages; there is also,
on the river front, a short row of deserted shops, their paintless
battlement-fronts in a sadly collapsed condition, while hard by are
the ruins of two or three dismantled mills. The settlement is on a
bit of prairie at the base of the preliminary flourish of the "big
bend" of the Rock,--hence the name, Grand Detour, a reminiscence of
the early French explorers. The foot of the peninsula is but half a
mile across, while the distance around by river to the lower ferry, on
the other side of the village is four miles. Having learned that the
bottoms below here were, for a long distance, peculiarly gloomy and
but sparsely inhabited, we thought it best to pass the night at Grand
Detour. Bespeaking accommodations at the tavern and post-office
combined, we rowed around the bend to the lower landing, through some
lovely stretches of river scenery, in which bold palisades and
delightful little meadows predominated.
The walk back to the village was through a fine park of elms. The
stage was just in from Dixon, with the mail. There was an eager little
knot of villagers in the cheerful sitting-room of our homelike inn,
watching the stout landlady as she distributed it in a checker-board
rank of glass-faced boxes fenced off in front of a sunny window. It
did not appear that many of those who overlooked the distribution of
the mail had been favored by their correspondents. They were chiefly
concerned in seeing who did get letters and papers, and in "passin'
the time o' day," as gossiping is called in rural communities. Seated
in a darkened corner, waiting patiently for supper, the announcement
of which was an hour or more in coming, we were much amused at the
mirror of local events which was unconsciously held up for us by these
loungers of both sexes and all ages, who fairly filled the room, and
oftentimes waxed hot in controversy.
The central theme of conversation was the preparations under way for
Decoration Day, which was soon to arrive. Grand Detour was to be
favored with a speaker from Dixon,--"a reg'lar major from the war,
gents, an' none o' yer m'lish fellers!" an enthusiastic old man with a
crutch persisted in announcing. There were to be services at the
church, and some exercises at the cemetery, where lie buried the
half-dozen honored dead, Grand Detour's sacrifice upon the altar of
the Union. The burning question seemed to be whether the village
preacher would consent to offer prayer upon the occasion, if the
church choir insisted on being accompanied on the brand-new cabinet
organ which the congregation had voted to purchase, but to which the
pastor and one of the leading deacons were said to be bitterly
opposed, as smacking of worldliness and antichrist. Only the evening
before, this deacon, armed with a sledgehammer and rope, had been seen
to go to the sanctuary in company with his "hired man," and enter
through one of the windows, which they pried up for the purpose. A
good gossip, who lived hard by, closely watched such extraordinary
proceedings. There was a great noise within, then some planks were
pitched out of the window, soon followed by the deacon and his man.
The window was shut down, the planks thrown atop of the horse-shed
roof, and the men disappeared. Investigation in the morning by the
witness revealed the fact that the choir-seats and the organ-platform
had been torn down and removed. Here was a pretty how d' do! The wiry,
raspy little woman, with her gray finger-curls and withered, simpering
smile, had, with great forbearance, kept her choice bit of news to
herself till "post-office time." Sitting in a big rocking-chair close
to the delivery window, knitting vigorously on an elongated stocking,
she demurely asserted that she "never wanted to say nothin' 'gin'
nobody, or to hurt nobody's feelin's," and then detailed the entire
circumstance to the patrons of the office as they came in. The
excitement created by the story, which doubtless lost nothing in the
telling, was at fever-heat. We were sorely tempted to remain over till
Decoration Day,--when, it was freely predicted, there "would be some
folks as'd wish they'd never been born,"--and see the outcome of this
tempest in a teapot. But our programme, unfortunately, would not admit
of such a diversion.
Others came and went, but the gossipy little body with the gray curls
rocked on, holding converse with both post-mistress and public,
keeping a keen eye on the character of the mail matter obtained by the
villagers and neighboring farmers, and freely commenting on it all; so
that new-comers were kept quite well-informed as to the correspondence
of those who had just departed.
A sad-eyed little woman in rusty black modestly slipped in, and was
handed out a much-creased and begrimed envelope, which she nervously
clutched. She was hurrying silently away, when the gossip sharply
exclaimed, "Good lands, Cynthi' Prescott! some folks don't know a body
when they meet. 'Spose ye've been hearin' from Jim at last. I'd been
thinkin' 't was about time ye got a letter from his hand, ef he war
ever goin' t' write at all. Tell ye, Cynthi' Prescott, ye're too
indulgent on that man o' yourn! Ef I--"
But Cynthia Prescott, turning her black, deep-sunken eyes to her
inquisitor, with a piteous, tearful look, as though stung to the
quick, sidled out backward through the wire-screen door, which sprung
closed with a vicious bang, and I saw her hurrying down the village
street firmly grasping at her bosom what the mail had brought
her,--probably a brutal demand for more money, from a worthless
husband, who was wrecking his life-craft on some far-away shore.
"Goodness me! but the Gilberts is a-puttin' on style!" ejaculated the
village censor, as a rather smart young horseman went out with a bunch
of letters, and a little packet tied up in red twine. "That there was
vis'tin' keerds from the printer's shop in Dixon, an' cost a dollar;
can't fool me! There's some folks as hev to be leavin' keerds on
folks's centre-tables when they goes makin' calls, for fear folks will
be a-forgettin' their names. When I go a-callin', I go a-visitin' and
take my work along an' stop an' hev a social cup o' tea; an' they
ain't a-goin' to forgit for awhile, that I dropped in on 'em, neither.
This way they hev down in Dixon, what I hear of, of ringin' at a bell
and settin' down with yer bonnet on and sayin', 'How d' do,' an' a
'Pretty well, I thank yer,' and jumpin' up as if the fire bell was
ringin' and goin' on through the whole n'ighberhood as ef ye're on
springs, an' then a-trancin' back home and braggin' how many calls
ye've made,--I ain't got no use for that; it'll do for Dixon folks,
what catch the style from Chicargy, an' they git 't from Paris each
year, I'm told, but I ain't no use for 't. Mebbe ol' man Gilbert is
made o' money,--his women folks act so, with all this a-apein' the
Clays, who's been gettin' visitin' keerds all the way from Chicargy,
which they ordered of a book agint last fall, with gilt letters an'
roses an' sich like in the corners. An' 'twas Clay's brother-in-law as
tol' me he never did see such carryin's-on over at the old house, with
letter-writin' paper sopped in cologne, an' lace curtains in the
bed-room winders. An' ye can't tell me but the Gilberts, too, is
a-goin' to the dogs, with their paper patterns from Dixon, and dress
samples from a big shop in Chicargy, which I seen from the picture on
the envelope was as big as all Grand Detour, an' both ferry-landin's
thrown in. Grand Detour fashi'ns ain't good 'nough for some folks, I
reckon."
And thus the busy-tongued woman discoursed in a vinegary tone upon the
characteristics of Grand Detour folks, as illustrated by the nature
of the evening mail, frequently interspersing her remarks with a
hearty disclaimer of anything malicious in her temperament. At last,
however, the supper-bell rang; the doughty postmistress, who had been
remarkably discreet throughout all this village tirade, having darted
in and out between the kitchen and the office, attending to her dual
duties, locked the postal gate with a snap, and asked her now solitary
patron, "Anything I can do for you, Maria?" The gossip gathered up her
knitting, hastily averred that she had merely dropped in for her
weekly paper, but now remembered that this was not the day for it, and
ambled off, to reload with venom for the next day's mail.
After supper we walked about the peaceful, pretty, grass-grown
village. Shearing was in progress at the barn of the inn, and the
streets were filled with bleating sheep and nodding billy-goats. The
place presented many evidences of former prosperity, and we were told
that a dozen years before it had boasted of a plough factory, two or
three flouring-mills, and a good water-power. But the railroad that it
was expected would come to Grand Detour had touched Dixon instead,
with the result that the village industries had been removed to
Dixon, the dam had fallen in, and now there were less than three
hundred inhabitants between the two ferries.
When one of the store-keepers told me he had practically no country
trade, but that his customers were the villagers alone, I was led to
inquire what supported these three hundred people, who had no
industries among them, no river traffic, owing to customary low water
in summer, and who seemed to live on each other. Many of the
villagers, I found, are laborers who work upon the neighboring farms
and maintain their families here; a few are farmers, the corners of
whose places run down to the village; others there are who either own
or rent or "share" farms in the vicinity, going out to their work each
day, much of their live stock and crops being housed at their village
homes; there are half a dozen retired farmers, who have either sold
out their places or have tenants upon them, and live in the village
for sociability's sake, or to allow their children the benefit of the
excellent local school. Mingled with these people are a shoemaker, a
tailor, a storekeeper, who live upon the necessities of their
neighbors. Two fishermen spend the summer here, in a tent, selling
their daily catch to the villagers and neighboring farmers and
occasionally shipping by the daily mail-stage to Dixon, fourteen miles
away. The preacher and his family are modestly supported; a young
physician wins a scanty subsistence; and for considerably over half
the year the schoolmaster shares with them what honors and sorrows
attach to these positions of rural eminence. Our pleasant-spoken host
was the driver of the Dixon stage, as well as star-route mail
contractor, adding the conduct of a farm to his other duties. With his
wife as postmistress, and a pretty, buxom daughter, who waited on our
table and was worth her weight in gold, Grand Detour folks said that
he was bound to be a millionnaire yet.
As Grand Detour lives, so live thousands of just such little rural
villages all over the country. Viewed from the railway track or river
channel, they appear to have been once larger than they are to-day.
The sight of the unpainted houses, the ruined factory, the empty
stores, the grass and weeds in the street, the lack-lustre eyes of the
idlers, may induce one to imagine that here is the home of hopeless
poverty and despair. But although the railroad which they expected
never came; or the railroad which did come went on and scheduled the
place as a flag station; still, there is a certain inherent vitality
here, an undefined something that holds these people together, a
certain degree of hopefulness which cannot rise to the point of
ambition, a serene satisfaction with the things that are. Grand Detour
folks, and folks like them, are as blissfully content as the denizens
of Chicago.