JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM
The road leading from the lake, through the sand hills, and the low
stretches of the back country, over to the sleepy village, is
broken--and badly broken--by numerous sections of corduroy
reinforcements, which have been laid in the marshy places, across small
creeks and quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake is seldom
traveled. Occasionally, during the hot weather, a wagon-load of people
will come over from the sleepy village, and from the little farms along
the road, and go into the lake to get cool. They will then spend the
rest of the day sweltering on the hot sand to get warm, and return at
night.
Beyond the marsh, perhaps half way to the village, is the residence and
office of Judge Cassius Blossom, the local Dogberry, the repository of
the conflicting interests, and final arbiter in most of the petty
dissensions of the sparsely settled country in which he lives.
[Illustration: OLD SETTLERS IN THE BACK COUNTRY]
The “Jedge” was a faithful member of the solemn conclaves of the wise
ones with the chin whiskers at the general store in the sleepy village,
where he often reversed the decisions of the supreme court. His chair in
the charmed circle around the big old-fashioned stove, and among the
sawdust cuspidors, in winter, and out on the platform under the awning
in summer, was looked upon as the resting-place of about as much legal
wisdom, and about as much bad whisky, as one man could comfortably carry
around. His dissertations were always anxiously listened to and absorbed
by his auditors, each according to his capacity. His opinions and
observations were variously interpreted to the home firesides around
through the country at night, according to the intellectual limitations
of the narrator.
“The Jedge says that they’s some cases that’s agin the common law, an’
they’s some cases that’s agin the stattoot law, but about this ’ere case
he was talkin’ about, ’e said ’e’d ’ave to look up sumpen. He told about
a case where some feller ’ad sued another feller fer some money that was
owin’ to ’im, but ’e’d lost the notes, but ’e was goin’ to git a
judgment agin this feller all the same, an’ make a levy on ’im. You bet
I’m goin’ to be thar when this case comes up in court an’ see wot’s
doin’. The Jedge is sharper’n a tack, an’ you bet them fellers over to
the county seat ain’t goin’ to put nothin’ over on’ im, if ’e’s sober.
He’ll make points on all of ’em, but if ’e goes over thar an’ sets
’round Fogarty’s place boozin’, ’e’ll lose out.”
In talking with Sipes, one afternoon, about some of the roads in the
back country, he suggested that we take a walk over to the Judge’s house
and see him. “The Jedge has got a map that’s got all them things on it.
The ol’ feller deals in law, an’ land, an’ fire insurance, an’
everythin’ else.”
After Sipes had carefully shut the door of his shanty, and secured it
with an old iron padlock, we started on our journey. He said that he
generally locked the place up when he went away, as “there was sometimes
some fellers snoopin’ ’round that might swipe sumpen, an’ the Jedge told
me oncet that if anybody ever busted open the lock, it would show
bulgarious intent, an’ they’d git sent up fer it if they ever got
caught, but if they went in when the place wasn’t locked, it was
trespass on the case, or sumpen like that.”
We trudged along through the deep sand for half a mile or so, and then
turned through an opening in the dunes where the road came in. Our walk
led through the broken wet country for about a mile before we came to
more solid ground. On the way across the marshy strip the old man
pointed out familiar spots where he had “lambasted pretty near a whole
flock o’ ducks at one shot.” In another place he had once spent nearly
an hour in “sneakin’ up on a bunch o’ wooden decoys that some feller had
out, an’ when I shot into ’em you’d a thought a ton o’ lead ’ad struck a
lumber pile. The feller yelled when I fired. He was back in some weeds,
an’ I guess ’e was afraid there was goin’ to be sumpen doin’ on ’im with
the other bar’l if ’e didn’t yell.”
A tamarack swamp, about half a mile away, was a favorite haunt for
rabbits in the winter. He often went over there on the ice after there
had been a light fall of snow.
“Them little beasts are pretty foxy, but I just go over there an’ set
still, an’ when one of ’em comes hoppin’ ’round out in the open, I
shoot the fillin’ out of ’im. I’ve got as many as twenty there in one
day.
“When we git over to the Jedge’s house, don’t you go ag’inst none o’
that whisky that ’e’s got in a big black bottle in the under part of ’is
desk. He calls the bottle ‘Black Betty,’ an’ it’s ter’ble stuff. It
kicks pretty near as hard as my ol’ scatter gun, an’ ’e has to keep a
glass stopper in the bottle. A common cork would be et up. A man that
laps up whisky like that has to have a sheet-iron stummick, an’ I guess
the Jedge’s got one all right, fer ’e’s bin hittin’ it fer years.
“He fills the bottle up out of a big demijohn, that ’e gits loaded up
from a partic’lar bar’l at Fogarty’s place over to the county seat when
’e goes to court, an’ lots o’ times when ’e don’t go to court. The bar’l
replenishes the demijohn, the demijohn replenishes Black Betty, an’
Black Betty replenishes the Jedge, an’ after that the Jedge has to
replenish Fogarty--so it all works ’round natural--an’ the Jedge keeps a
skinful all the time.
“A white man could drink the grog we used to have on the ship an’ still
see, but the Jedge’s dope would make a hole in a pine board, an’ you
pass it by.”
This I solemnly promised to do.
“I notice that them fellers that take up stiddy boozin’ have to ’tend to
it all the time. When ol’ Jedge Blossom finds out that them law cases
that ’e’s always talkin’ about interferes with ’is boozin’, ’e’ll quit
monkeyin’ with ’em. It must a bin a sweet country that ’e bloomed in.
Pretty near every time I go to see ’im, ’e ain’t home. They say ’e’s off
’tendin’ to some important cases before the master in chancery. Them
cases is prob’ly mostly before Black Betty, fer I notice ’e always comes
home from ’em stewed, an’ sometimes ’is horse comes home alone an’ ’e
comes later. He takes drinks lots o’ times when ’e don’t need ’em. He
just drops ’em in to hear ’em spatter.
“They’ll find ’im in a catamose condition some day when ’e’s over to the
county seat, that ’e won’t come out of, an’ when it’s all over they can
dispose of ’is remains by just pourin’ ’im back into Fogarty’s bar’l.
All that’ll be left of ’im’ll be ’is thirst, an’ they’d better put
wot’ll be left of ’is fire insurance business in with ’im, fer ’e’ll
need some.”
The old man’s entertaining review of the frailties of the “Jedge,” and
of alcoholic humanity in general, continued until we arrived at our
destination.
The small frame house, which was once white, but now a dingy gray, was
adorned with faded green blinds. It stood about fifty feet back from the
road. Some mournful evergreens stood in painful regularity in the front
yard. The fence was somewhat dilapidated, and on it was a weather-beaten
sign:
CASSIUS BLOSSOM, J.P.,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Notary Public,
Fire Insurance, Real Estate.
A gravel walk, fringed with white shells, led from the rickety gate to
the rather ecclesiastical-looking front door. Sipes remarked in passing
that “them white shells was to help the Jedge steer ’is course on dark
nights, when ’e was three sheets in the wind, an’ beatin’ up aginst it.”
There was a brown bell-handle near the door, and when it was pulled we
could hear a prolonged, hoarse tinkling somewhere off in the rear of
the house. We soon heard footsteps, and a forbidding-looking female
opened the door. She was quite tall and angular. A few faded freckles
around the nose--a mass of frowsy red hair, liberally streaked with
gray--a general untidiness--and a glint in her yellowish-brown eyes, as
she peered out at us over her brass-rimmed spectacles, produced
impressions that were anything but assuring.
On being admitted to the house, we were ushered into the “library,”
which also evidently served as a dining-room and office. A round table
stood in the middle of the room, covered with a soiled red and white
fringed table cloth. A hair-cloth sofa, with some broken springs and
bits of excelsior protruding from underneath, occupied one side of the
apartment, and there were several chairs of the same repellant material.
A narrow roll-top combination desk and bookcase, freely splotched with
ink-stains, stood near the window. Behind the dusty glass doors of the
bookcase were a few well-worn books, bound in sheepskin. The first
volume of Blackstone’s Commentaries, a copy of Parsons on Contracts, two
or three volumes of court reports, and the Revised Statutes of the
state, completed the assemblage of legal lore.
The pictures on the walls consisted of some stiff-looking crayon
portraits in gloomy frames, evidently copied from old photographs--all
of which were very bad--another somber frame containing a fly-specked
steel engraving of the justices of the U. S. Supreme Court, and still
another, out of which the stern and noble face of Daniel Webster looked
into the room. His immeasurable services to his country did not prevent
him from leaving a malign influence behind him. His unfortunate example
convinces many budding statesmen and promising lawyers that the human
intellect is not soluble in alcohol, and they are lulled into the belief
that the brilliancy of his mind was not dimmed by his indulgences. They
emulate his weakness, as well as his strength, and console themselves in
their cups with the greatness of Webster.
The “Jedge” sat at the desk, without his coat, writing, his back toward
us. His shirt-sleeves, and his wide stand-up collar, were not clean.
Evidently he was very busy and must not be disturbed just yet. With a
solemn wink of his solitary eye, and an expressive gesture, Sipes
attracted my attention to a faint wreath of softly ascending smoke
issuing from a cob pipe, which was lying on a window-sill on the
opposite side of the room, which suggested that the important business
at the desk may have commenced when the bell rang.
Evidently the “Jedge” appreciated the tactical advantage which
preoccupation always establishes when business callers come. The
visitor, in being compelled to await the disposal of more weighty
matters, is duly humbled and impressed with the fact that, at least so
far as time is concerned, he is a suppliant and not a dictator.
Dissimulation is an universal practice of man and woman kind. A
pessimistic student of the complexities of the human comedy might, with
much justice, conclude that at least half of the people on the
globe--and especially of those who are super-civilized--pretend, to a
greater or less degree, to be something that they are not, and the other
half pretend not to be something that they are.
Further thought upon this subject was interrupted by the “Jedge.” The
cane-seated swivel chair turned with a loud squeak, and we were before
the disciple of Blackstone & Bacchus--that famous firm whose
dissolution the shade of Webster will never permit.
He was a spare, red-faced man, of perhaps sixty-five, with white hair
and tobacco-stained whiskers. His prominent nose appeared to be a little
swollen and wore a deep blush. With a learned frown he looked out of his
deep-set and bloodshot eyes, over the tops of his spectacles. His voice
was deep and hoarse.
“Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
It was afternoon, but, as the uncharitable Sipes suggested later, “the
Jedge prob’ly hadn’t got home last night yet, or mebbe ’e’d just got
up.”
“You will have to excuse me for keeping you waiting, but I’ve just been
preparing the final papers in a very important case that I’ve got to
file in court by Saturday. I’ve had to work on them steadily for the
past few days, as there are some very complicated questions of law
involved, and I’ve had to look up a lot of decisions. I am now entirely
at your service.”
After being formally introduced by my friend Sipes, I explained the
object of the visit. The “Jedge” was very cordial. He arose from his
chair, walked impressively, and with much dignity, across the room,
resumed his cob pipe, which was still alive, and raised the lid of an
old leather-covered trunk, bound with brass nails. After a long search
he produced the desired map and spread it out on the table.
“Before we take up this matter of the roads, I think, gentlemen, that we
had better have a little refreshment.”
We both politely declined his invitation and expressed a preference for
some cold water. He seemed disappointed, and, with a surprised and
curious glance at Sipes, returned to the desk, opened one of the lower
doors, and gently lifted “Black Betty” out of the gloom.
“I haven’t been feeling very well for several days, and I’ve had some
pains in my back. If you’ll excuse me for drinking alone, I’ll just take
a little bracer.” Sipes’ solitary eye again closed expressively, as the
“Jedge” removed the stopper, grasped the big bottle firmly around the
neck, and tilted it among his whiskers with a motion that no tyro could
ever hope to imitate.
The answering gurgle indicated that the “bracer” was “going home,” and
that, to say the least, it was not homeopathic. After the restoration of
“Black Betty” to her hiding-place, the “Jedge” resumed the conversation,
without referring to the cold water which we had suggested. Possibly the
mention of it had affected him unpleasantly.
He explained the map in detail, and told of several changes that would
have to be made in a new one. This led to long accounts, punctuated with
more winks by Sipes, of petty litigation, in which he had taken a
prominent part, as a result of which a lot of land had been condemned
and some new roads established. Had it not been for him, the highways
would have been “entirely inadequate, and in very poor condition.”
In summing up his public services he said that he had lived in that part
of the state for about thirty years. His advice was now being generally
followed, and the country was beginning to pick up. He had several small
farms for sale which he would like to show me, if I thought of locating
around there; in fact, there was nothing anywhere in that part of the
country that was not for sale.
I told him that my interest in the subject was entirely of an artistic
character.
“Well, if that’s the case, I can show you a lot of fine scenes, and if
you’ll come over some day and get into a buggy with me, I’ll drive you
over to the county seat when I go to court.”
He seemed much flattered when I asked him to allow me to make a sketch
of him. After it was finished, he examined it critically, to the intense
amusement of Sipes. He thought the nose was a little too big, and the
hair was “too much mussed up.” He also thought that the drawing made him
look a little older than he was, and that the eye was not quite natural,
“but of course I can’t see the side of my face, and it may be all right.
“As you are interested in art, you’ll enjoy looking at my pictures.”
He then showed me the array on the walls, of which he was very proud.
The crayon portrait of his first wife, with the cheeks tinted pink and
the ear-rings gilded, he thought “was a fine piece of work.” A man had
come along, about ten years ago, and had made three “genuine crayon
portraits” for ten dollars. The “Jedge” supposed that “now days they
would be worth a great deal more than that.” The other two “genuine
crayon portraits” represented his father and mother, an antiquated
couple in the Sunday dress of pioneer days, who looked severely out of
their heavy frames. The man had taken the old daguerreotypes away to be
copied, and when the completed goods were delivered, he claimed that
“the frames alone were worth as much as the pictures.” In this he was
quite right.
The “Jedge” wanted to show me an album containing pictures of the rest
of his relatives, but fortunately he was unable to find it. In searching
for it, however, he ran across a box containing a collection of Indian
arrow heads, flint implements, and spears, which were of absorbing
interest. He had found some of them himself, and numerous friends,
knowing of his hobby, had furnished him with many of these valuable
relics of the red man, whose white brothers came with guns and strong
waters and appropriated his heritage.
He soon began to show signs of more pains in his back. With an
apologetic reference to them, and with more sly winks from Sipes, “Black
Betty” was again produced, and her fiery fluid again solaced the arid
esophagus of the “Jedge.”
The contents of the bottle were evidently getting dangerously low. He
excused himself for a minute, and took it into the next room, where he
refilled it from the big demijohn that stood in the corner. Sipes
indulged in many amusing grimaces as the sounds from the other room
indicated that “Black Betty’s” condition had again become normal.
After we had talked a little while longer, Sipes related to the “Jedge”
the story of the tangled set lines, over which he and “Happy Cal” had
got into trouble years ago, and wanted to know “what the law was.”
After listening carefully to all of the facts, the “Jedge” cleared his
throat slightly and delivered his opinion.
This preliminary slight clearing of the throat implies deliberation, and
often adds impressiveness to a forthcoming utterance. Sipes remarked
later, that “nobody never lived that was as wise as the Jedge looked
when ’e hemmed a little an’ got on ’is legal frown.”
“It seems from the facts before us, that the mass of property under
consideration was discovered on the shore, about half-way between the
homes of the two claimants, neither of whom, as a matter of fact,
possessed original title to it. The position of the mass when found
brings up several difficult questions of law, involving facts which are
_malum in se_. A portion of it was on the surface of the water, a
portion of it was submerged, and still another portion was on dry land.
According to maritime law, that portion on the surface was flotsam, and
that portion which was submerged was jetsam. The laws affecting flotsam
and jetsam would prevail as to these two portions, but as to the portion
which rested on dry land, I am inclined to think that the _lex loci_
would apply.”
Whereupon, the bewildered Sipes asked, “Who done this?”
Disregarding the interruption, the “Jedge” again slightly cleared his
throat and continued:
“_A priori_, I am of opinion that _prima facie_ evidence of ownership
rests with possession, and that the _onus probandi_ must necessarily be
_ex adverso_.” The “Jedge” then stated that the opinion would cost half
a dollar. Sipes was speechless, but paid the fee.
The “Jedge” had charged “Happy Cal” a dollar one night, years ago, for
an opinion in the same case. He had advised Cal “not to disturb the
_status quo_.” The dazed client paid the money and disappeared into the
darkness. He probably stopped at Sipes’s place, where the untangled
lines were stretched out to dry, and cut them up, on his way home, thus
disposing of the “_status quo_” entirely.
It was to the credit of the “Jedge” that he never took any more than his
clients had, and they could always come back when they had more.
We finally thanked the “Jedge” for his courtesy, and bade him good-bye.
On the way back I reimbursed Sipes in the matter of the half-dollar
which he had paid for the opinion, as it had really been worth more to
me than it was to him. After we had left the house, the old man’s
comments on the visit were earnest and caustic.
“Wot d’ye think o’ the gall o’ that old cuss chargin’ me half a dollar
fer all that noise ’e made about them lines? I don’t know that feller
Losey ’e spoke of. He was never ’round ’ere at all, an’ ’e never ’ad
nothin’ to do with them lines, an’ that melon in the sea, that ’e told
about, was all bunk. There was nothin’ like that near that bunch o’
stuff. I don’t know what ever become o’ Cal. He may be now in spotless
robes, fer all I know, but I know ’e cut up them lines just the same.
There was about two miles of ’em, when they was fixed up an’ stretched
out, an’ they was worth some money, an’ as long as the feller that ’ad
’em out in the lake didn’t come along to claim ’em, they was mine. Cal
never ’ad no bus’ness with ’em, an’ I don’t need to mosey over an’ pay
that old tank fifty cents to find it out, neither. Cash us Blossom is a
good name fer him, all right. He’s everythin’ I said ’e was on the way
over, an’ more, too. He’s got some fresh money now, an’ I’ll bet the
demijohn’ll be trundled over to the county seat the first thing in the
mornin’. He can buy a lot o’ the kind o’ Whisky ’e drinks fer half a
dollar.
“He lays ’is demijohn on the side, underneath, when ’e starts out, but
when ’e drives home it’s always standin’ up in the back o’ the buggy,
so nothin’ ’ll spill, an’ that’s more’n the Jedge could do. When I see
’im drivin’ on the road, I can always tell, by where the demijohn is,
whether ’e’s got a cargo or travelin’ light. That heap big Injun dignity
that ’e’s always puttin’ on when ’e makes them spiels o’ his, gives me
tired feelin’s. You can’t mix up dignity with whisky without spoilin’
both of ’em. If ’e ever comes over to my place, you can turn me into
snakes if I don’t charge ’im a half a dollar fer the first question ’e
asks. I’ll bet ’e won’t come though, fer I’m too near the water. I wish
I could sic old Doc Looney on ’im some time. He wouldn’t stay afloat
long after the Doc got to ’im.”
I asked Sipes if the forbidding-looking female who came to the door was
the Judge’s wife.
“Not on yer life,” he replied. “If ’e had a wife, she’d kill ’im. That
ol’ cactus is ’is housekeeper. She’s a distant relative o’ some kind,
an’ she’s just waitin’ fer Black Betty to finish ’im up so’s she’ll git
the house.”
We arrived at Sipes’s place about dusk. I had left my boat on the beach,
and, as the old man helped me push it into the water, he indulged in
final anathemas against the “Jedge.” He shook his fist in his direction
and said that “when we go over there ag’in we’d better leave our money
in the shanty.”
I happened to stop at the store in the sleepy village one hot day during
the following summer. The “Jedge” was just getting into his buggy, but
stopped and greeted me cordially. I intended leaving for home that
evening, and he kindly offered to take me to the railroad station, about
five miles away. I gladly accepted his offer, although he did not appear
to be in a very good condition to drive a horse.
On the way across the country he recited his public services, discussed
the details of his “important cases,” and unfolded his dreams of the
future of the county.
We arrived at the station just in time to enable me to jump quickly out
of the buggy and catch the train that was pulling out. I paused on the
rear platform to call out a good-bye to the “Jedge,” but he had tried to
make too short a turn on the narrow road, and the buggy was lying on its
side, much twisted up. The horse had stopped and was looking
inquiringly back from between the broken thills. The “Jedge,” who was
partially under the wreck, but evidently unhurt, waved a cheerful
farewell at me as the train passed the water tank, and in the distance I
could see that he was getting safely out of the scrape.
The station agent and a few villagers, who had come to the depot to see
that the train arrived and departed properly, were going to his
assistance.
From about two miles away I saw the black buggy top slowly resume its
normal position and begin to move on the road. The “Jedge” was probably
by this time much in need of “refreshment,” and, as he was now on the
way to the county seat, relief was not very far off. Undoubtedly his
friend Fogarty would fully and deeply sympathize with him in his
troubles as long as his cash lasted.
He was one of the pathetic failures whom we meet daily in the walks of
life. Naturally gifted, and fairly well educated, he had started bravely
out on his road of destiny, with noble ambitions and alluring hopes. In
the early part of the journey he had lifted a fatal chalice to his
lips, and the way became dark. He drifted from the highway that might
have led to fame and fortune to the still by-path in which we found him.
Because he was not strong, he fell--as countless others have fallen
before him.
The shadow of “Black Betty” has fallen over a chair in the sleepy
village that is now empty, and it may be that the poor old “Jedge” is
arguing his own plea for mercy before a greater Court. Let us hope that
his final appeal may bring forgiveness and peace.
The stone, simple and suggestive, which was erected to his memory, was
designed and paid for by his friends. Even Sipes relented and requested
Catfish John to put fifty cents in “cash-money” into the contribution
box at the store for him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
“AMONG BIG WET STRETCHES OF
HIGH GRASS AND BULRUSHES”]
[Illustration] CHAPTER XIII
THE WINDING RIVER
To enjoy a river we must adjust ourselves to its moods, for a river has
many moods. It moves swiftly and light-heartedly over the shallows, as
we do, and it has its solemn, quiet moments in the shadows of the steep
banks, where the current is deep and still. It begins, like our lives,
somewhere far away, and twists and turns, flows in long swerves, meets
many rocks, ripples over pebbly places, smiles among many riffles,
frowns under stormy skies, meditates in quiet nooks, and then goes on.
As it becomes older it broadens and becomes stronger. It begins to make
a larger path of its own in the world, which it follows with varying
fortunes, until its waters have gone beyond it.
The Winding River begins miles away and steals down through the back
country. It curves and runs through devious channels and makes wide
detours, before it finally flows out through the sand hills into the
great lake.
Along its tranquil course there are many things to be studied and
learned, and many new thoughts and sensations to grow out of them. We
must go down the river, and not against its current, to know its strange
spirit, and to love it. There is always a feeling of closer
companionship when we are traveling in the same direction.
It is best to go alone, in a small boat, carrying a few feet of rope
attached to a heavy stone, so that the boat may be anchored in any
desirable spot. You should sit facing the bow, and guide the boat with a
paddle, or a pair of oars in front of you, and let the current carry you
along.
The journey commences several miles up in the woods, where the banks are
only a few feet apart. The boat is piloted cautiously through the deep
forest, among the ancient logs that clog the current. The patriarchs
have fallen in bygone years, and are slowly moldering away into the
limpid waters that once reflected them in their stately Indian summer
robes of red and gold.
Masses of water-soaked brush must be encountered, and sunken snags
avoided. Fringes of small turtles, on decayed and broken branches,
protruding from the water, and on the recumbent trunks, splash noisily
into the depths below--a wood duck glides away downstream--a muskrat,
that has been investigating a deep pool near the bank, beats a hasty
retreat, and a few scolding chipmunks flip their tails saucily, and
whisk out of sight. A gray squirrel barks defiantly from the branch of
an over-hanging tree, and an excited kingfisher circles around, loudly
protesting against the invasion of his hunting grounds.
All of the wild things resent intrusion into their solitudes, and
disappear, when there is any movement. If we would know them and learn
their ways, we must sit silently and wait for them to come around us. We
may go into the woods and sit upon a log or stump, without seeing the
slightest sign of life, and apparently none exists in the vicinity, but
many pairs of sharp eyes have observed our coming long before we could
see them.
After a period of silence the small life will again become active, and
in the course of an afternoon, if we are cautious as well as observant,
we will find that we have seen and heard a great deal that is of
absorbing interest.
Larger openings begin to appear among the trees, the sunlit spaces
become broader, and patches of distant sky come into the picture. There
are fewer obstructions in the course, and the little boat floats out
into comparatively open country. Tall graceful elms, with the delicate
lacery of their green-clad branches etched against the clouds, a few
groups of silvery poplars, some straggling sycamores, and bunches of
gnarled stubby willows line the margins of the stream, and detached
masses of them appear out on the boggy land.
The Winding River flows through a happy valley. From a bank among the
trees a silver glint is seen upon water, near a clump of willows, not so
very far away, but the sinuous stream will loiter for hours before it
comes to them.
A few cattle, several horses, and a solitary crow give a life note to
the landscape. A faint wreath of smoke is visible above some trees on
the right, there are echoes from a hidden barnyard, and a fussy bunch of
tame ducks are splashing around the end of a half-sunken flat-bottomed
boat attached to a stake.
A freckled faced boy, of about ten, with faded blue overalls, frayed
below the knees, and sustained by one suspender, is watching a crooked
fishpole and a silent cork, near the roots of a big sycamore that shades
a pool.
He wears a rudimentary shirt, and his red hair projects, like little
streaks of flame, through his torn hat. His bare feet and legs are very
dirty. He looks out from under the uncertain rim of the hat with a
comical expression when asked what luck he is having, and holds up a
willow switch, on which are suspended a couple of diminutive bullheads,
and a small but richly colored sunfish. The spoil is not abundant, yet
the freckled boy is happy.
After the boat has passed on nearly a quarter of a mile, his distant
yell of triumph is heard. “I’ve got another one!” Pæons of victory from
conquered walls could tell no more.
Farther on, the banks become a little higher, the stream is wider and
faster. In the distance a dingy old water-mill creeps into the
landscape. This means that a dam will soon be encountered. The boat will
have to be pulled out and put back into the river below it. For this it
will be necessary to arouse the cooperative interest of the miller in
some way, for the boat is not built of feathers.
A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the river’s course, and the
clumsy old-fashioned wheel is slowly and noisily churning away under the
side of the mill. The structure was once painted a dull red, but time
has blended it into a warm neutral gray. Some comparatively recent
repairs on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance, and add
picturesque quality. A few small houses are scattered along the road
leading to the mill, and the general store is visible among the trees
farther back, for the little boat has now come to the sleepy village in
the back country. There are no railroad trains or trolley-cars to
desecrate its repose, for these are far away. Several slowly moving
figures appear on the road. There is an event of some kind down near the
mill, and the well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the Store
have been deserted. Whatever is going on must be carefully inspected and
considered at once.
There is an interesting foreground between the boat and the mill, the
reflections to be seen from the opposite bank seem tempting, and an
absorbing half hour is spent under the tree, with the sketch book and
soft pencil.
The curious group on the other side is evidently indulging in all sorts
of theories and speculations as to “wot that feller over there is tryin’
to do.” It is a foregone conclusion that curiosity will eventually
triumph, and soon the strain becomes too intense for further endurance.
The old miller, with the dust of his trade copiously sifted into his
clothes and whiskers, gets into the flat-bottomed boat near the dam and
slowly poles it across. All of the details of the voyage are attentively
scrutinized from the other side.
After a friendly “good morning,” a few remarks about the stage of the
water, and the weather prospects, he stands around for a while, and then
looks over at the sketch. He produces a pair of brass-rimmed
spectacles, which enables him to study it more carefully, and he is much
pleased. He “haint never noticed the scene much from this side, but it
looks pretty. After this is finished off you’d better come ’round on the
other side, so’s to show the platform an’ the sign. A feller made a
photograph of my mill once, an’ ’e promised to send me one, but ’e
didn’t never do it.” The long remembered incident, and the broken faith,
seemed to disturb him, and he appeared to be concerned as to the destiny
of the sketch. He wanted it “to put up in the mill.”
His befloured whiskers and general appearance suggest more sketches, and
he is induced to pose for a few minutes. One of the drawings is
presented to him, and the curiosity on the other bank is now getting to
the breaking point. Only the absence of transportation facilities
prevents the crossing of the anxious spectators. There have been several
additions to the gaping group on the other side. A portly female, in a
gingham dress, stands bareheaded in the road, contemplating the scene
from afar, and a couple of barking dogs have come down to the edge of
the water.
The deliberate and dignified approach of the keeper of the general store
lends a new note of interest.
After further pleasant conversation, the dusty miller helps to drag the
boat around the dam. He waves a cheerful farewell, recrosses the stream,
and immediately becomes the center of concentrated interest. The fat
woman in the road waddles down to the mill, and a number of bareheaded
children come running down the slope, who have peeked at the proceedings
from secluded points of vantage.
As the boat floats on, the figures become indistinct, the houses fade
into the soft distance, the mill, like those of the gods, grinds slowly
on, and, with the next bend in the river, the sleepy village is gone.
The story of the eventful day percolates from the store off into the
back country, and weeks later we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in
the marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills. He unfortunately
“wasn’t to town” at the time.
“A feller come ’long in a boat an’ stopped at the mill. He was ’round
thar fer over an hour
[Illustration:
“WITH THE NEXT BEND IN THE RIVER
THE SLEEPY VILLAGE IS GONE”]
an’ drawed some pitchers of it. He made one o’ the old man with ’is pipe
showin’. He was some city feller, an’ had to git the old man to help ’im
with ’is boat ’round the dam. The old man’s got a pitcher ’e made of ’im
stickin’ up in the mill now. A feller like him oughter larn some trade,
instid o’ foolin’ away ’is time makin’ pitchers. Nobody ’ud ever buy one
o’ them dam’ things in a thousand years. I’ll bet ’e was spyin’ fer the
railroad, an’ they’ll prob’ly be ’long here makin’ a _sur_vey before
long.”
A little farther down is a loose-jointed bridge with some patent
medicine signs on it. Another sign tells the users not to drive over the
structure “faster than a walk.” Any kind of a speed limit in this
slumbrous land seems preposterous, but the cautionary board is there,
peppered over with little holes, made by repeated charges of small shot,
and partially defaced with sundry initials cut into it with jack-knives.
Some crude and unknown humorist has changed some of the letters and
syllables in the patent medicine signs, and made them even more
eloquent.
Another lone fisherman is on the bridge, watching a cork that bobs idly
on the dimpled tide below. Another single suspender supports some
deteriorated overalls. Possibly the freckled boy up the river was
wearing the rest of the suspenders. He is an old man, with heavy gray
eyebrows, and long white whiskers that sway gently in the soft wind. His
face has an air of patient resignation. He wears a faded colored shirt
and a weather-beaten straw hat. His feet, encased in cowhide boots,
hang down over the edge of the rickety structure, and he sadly shakes
his head when asked if he has caught any fish. His lure has been
ineffectual and he is about ready to go home. There is still a faint
lingering hope that the cork may be suddenly submerged, and the
appearance of a new object of interest has decided him to remain a
little while longer.
He explains that “the wind ain’t right fer fishin’. I’ve seen fish
caught off’en this bridge so fast you couldn’t bait the hooks, but the
wind has to be south. Besides the water’s all roily to-day an’ the fish
can’t see nothin’. I bin drownin’ worms ’ere most all day, an’ I ain’t
had a bite, an’ I’m goin’ to quit.”
Just after the boat had passed under the bridge, a dead minnow floated
along on the current. A large pickerel broke water and seized it. His
sweeping tail made a loud swish, and the water boiled with commotion as
he turned and dove with his prize.
Instantly the dejected figure on the bridge became thrilled with a new
life, and a torrent of profanity filled the air.
“Now wot d’ye think o’ that! The gosh dangled idjut’s bin ’round ’ere
all the time, an’ me settin’ ’ere with worms fer ’im. They’s a lot o’
fish in this ’ere river that I’ll teach sumpen to before I’m through
with ’em. I’m a pretty old man, but you bet I’m goin’ to play the game
while I’m ’ere. I wonder where ’e went with that dam’ minnie!”
The boat goes tranquilly on, and in the dim distance the old man is
actively moving around on the bridge, flourishing his cane pole and
casting the tempting bait all over the surface of the water, evidently
hoping that the “gosh dangled idjut” will rise again.
The river now comes to the beginning of the vast marsh, through which
its well-defined channel follows a tortuous route among big wet
stretches of high grasses and bulrushes, winds with innumerable turns,
makes long sweeps and loops, and comes back, almost doubling itself in
its serpentine course. The current slackens and the water becomes
deeper.
The cries of the marsh birds are heard, and muskrats are swimming at the
apexes of the long V-shaped wakes out on the open water. On small boggy
spots are piles of empty freshwater clam shells where these interesting
little animals have feasted. As the crows seem to dominate the sand
hills, the muskrats contribute much picturesque quality to the marsh.
Their little houses add interest to the wet places, and traces of them
appear all over the low land.
[Illustration:
“THE RIVER NOW COMES TO THE BEGINNING
OF THE VAST MARSH”]
A wild duck hurries her downy young into the thick grasses--a few
turtles tumble hastily from the bogs into the water--a large blue heron
rises slowly out of an unseen retreat, and trails his long legs after
him in rhythmic flight down the marsh--mysterious wings are heard among
the rushes--immense flocks of blackbirds fill the air--there is a splash
out among the lily pads, where a hungry fish has captured his
unsuspecting prey, and the deep sonorous bass of a philosophic bullfrog
resounds from concealed recesses.
Another bend in the channel reveals a flock of wild ducks feeding
quietly along the edges of the weeds. The intrusion is quickly detected
and they swiftly take wing. A sinister head, with beady eyes, appears on
the surface behind the boat, and is instantly withdrawn. A big
snapping-turtle has come up to investigate the cause of the dark shadow
which has passed along the bottom.
Some open wet ground comes into view around the next curve, and some
lazy cattle look up inquiringly. After their curiosity is satisfied,
they turn their heads away and resume their reflections.
The Winding River has its solemn hours as well as those of gladness.
Heavy masses of low gray clouds are creeping into the sky, the shadows
are disappearing and a moody monotone has come over the landscape. Deep
mutterings of thunder, and a few vivid flashes, herald the approach of
a storm.
Some thick willows, which can be reached through openings among the lily
pads, a short distance from the main channel, offer a convenient
shelter, and from it the coming drama can be contemplated.
The big drops are soon heard among the leaves, the distant trees loom in
ghostly stillness through veils of moving mist, the delicate color tones
gently change into a lower scale, and the voices of the falling waters
come. The reeds and rushes bend humbly, and there are subdued cries from
the feathered life that is hurrying to shelter among them. The rain
patters and murmurs out among the thick grasses and on the open river.
There are noble beauties and sublimities in the storm, which those who
only love the sunshine can never know. Truly “Our Lady of the Rain”
weaves a marvelous spell, and her song is of surpassing beauty, as she
trails her robes in majesty over the river and through the marshy
wastes. Her pictures blend with her measures, for a song may have other
mediums than sound, and there are many symphonies that are silent. The
prelude in the lowering clouds, and the melody of the loosened waters,
bring to us a sense of unity and closer communion with the powers in the
skies above us.
The sheets of flying waters have gone on up the marsh, a long rift has
appeared in the clouds beyond the hills, a bright gleam has come through
it, and the end of a rainbow touches a clump of poplars far away. The
storm is over and the little boat is piloted out through the lily pads,
to resume its journey on the tranquil stream. It finally reaches the
sand hills. The river narrows and runs more rapidly as it leaves the
swamp. Another sleepy little town, with two or three bridges, appears
ahead. There are more still figures on the bank, watching corks on lines
attached to long cane poles, which are stuck into the earth and
supported by forked sticks. The labor of holding them has proved too
great and natural forces have been utilized to avoid unnecessary
exertion. The anglers appear much depressed and are soaking wet. A
nearby bridge would have provided a refuge from the recent rain, but
possibly their intellectual limitations did not permit of advantage
being taken of it.
A friendly inquiry as to their success evokes sleepy responses, and
looks of languid curiosity. “The fishin’ ain’t no good. I got one
yisterd’y, but I guess the water’s too high fer ’em to bite.”
We have now come to the end of the Winding River. Its waters glide
peacefully out and blend into the blue immensity of the great lake. Like
a human life that has run its course through the vicissitudes and varied
paths of the years, they have ceased to flow, and have been gathered
into unknown depths beyond.
There are many winding rivers, but this one has numberless joyful and
poetic associations. On its peaceful waters many sketch-books have been
filled, and happy hours dreamed away. From the little boat wonderful
vistas have unfolded, and marvelous skies have been contemplated.
The heavens at twilight, flushed with glorious afterglows in orange,
green and purple--the clear still firmament at mid-day, lightly flecked
with little wisps of smoky vapor--the lazy white masses against the
infinite blue, and the billowing thunderheads on the horizon on quiet
afternoons--the stormy array of dark battalions of wind-blown clouds,
with their trailing sheets of rain--and many other convolutions of the
great panoramas in the skies, have been humbly observed from the little
boat. The Winding River has reflected them, and the picturesque sweeps
and bends, the masses of trees on the banks, with the silvery stretches
of slowly moving waters, have given wonderful foregrounds to these
entrancing prospects.
Fancy has woven rare fabrics, and builded strange and fragile dreams
among these glowing and ever-changing symphonies of light and color. The
little boat has been a kingdom in a world of enchantment. The domes and
vistas of a fairy-land have been visible from it. The Psalm of Life has
seemed to float softly over the bosom of the river, and mingle with the
harmonies of infinite hues in the heavens beyond. The lances of the
departing sun have trailed over the waters, and dark purple shadows have
gently crept into the landscape. Manifold voices are hushed, and the
story of another day is told.
Nature, seemingly jealous of other companionship, yields her spiritual
treasures only to him who comes alone into her sweet solitudes. Before
him who comes in reverence, the filmy veils are lifted, and the poetic
soul is gently led into mystic paths beyond.
In her great anthems of sublimity and power, she fills our hearts with
awe, and appals us with our insignificance, but her soft lullabies,
which we hear in the secluded places, are within the capacity of our
emotions. It is here that she comes to us in her tenderness and beauty,
and gently touches the finer chords of our being.
One may stand upon a mountain-top and behold the splendors of awful
immensities, but the imagination is soon lost in infinity, and only the
atom on the rock remains. The music of the swaying rushes, the whispers
among rippling waters and softly moving leaves, and the voices of the
Little Things that sing around us, all come within the compass of our
spiritual realm. It is with them that we must abide if we would find
contentment of heart and soul.
The love of moving water is one of our primal instincts. The tired mind
seeks it, and weary travelers on the deserts of life are sustained by
the hope of living waters beyond. There are winding rivers on which we
may float in the world of our fancy, and it is on them that we may find
peace when sorrows have afflicted us and our burdens have made scars.
They may flow through lordly forests, and stately mansions and magic
gardens may be reflected in their limpid tides. The songs of these
rivers are the songs of the heart, and in them there is no note of
triumph over the fallen, or despair of the stricken. They are songs of
courageous life and melodies of the living things, but only those who
listen may hear them.
Sometimes, in faint half-heard tones from far away, we may imagine
echoes from another world than ours, and, as we enter into the final
gloom, these harmonies may become divine. In the darker recesses of our
intellectual life we find shadows that never move. They seem to lie like
black sinister bars across our mental paths. We know not what is beyond
them, and we shrink from a nameless terror. Into these shadows our loved
ones have gone. They have returned into the Elemental Mystery. Their
voices have not come back to us, but their cadences may be in the
singing winds and amid the patter of the summer rain.
Our Ship of Dreams can bear a wondrous cargo. We can sometimes see its
mirage in the still skies beyond the winding rivers, though its sails
and spars are far below the horizon’s rim. We know that on it are those
who beckon, and its wave-kissed prow is toward us. Frail though its
timbers be, the years may bring it, but if it never comes, we have seen
the picture, and new banners have been unfurled before it.
[Illustration:
HE “WAITED UNTIL HE SAW HIS STAR COME OVER THE
HORIZON IN THE PATH OF THE YOUNG MOON”]