The Long Ago | Page 3

the
borders of the whole wide world. There were other rivers, other villages,
other lands somewhere - all with strange, queer names - existing only
in the geographies to worry little children. The real world, and all the
really, truly folks and things, were along the far-stretching banks of this
our river. Down by the flats, where the tiny creek widened to a
miniature swamp and emptied its placid waters into the main stream,
the red-wing blackbirds sounded their strange cry among the cat-tails
and the bull-rushes; the frogs croaked in ceaseless and reverberant
chorus; the catfish were ever hungry after dark, and the night was
broken by the glare of torches along the little bridge or in a group of
boats where fisher-lads kept close watch upon their corks. Far below
The Dam, where the changeful current had left a wide sand-bar and a

great tree-trunk stretched its fallen length across from the shore to the
water's edge, the mud-turtles basked in the sun-shine, and, at the
approach of Boyhood, glided or splashed to the safety of the water.
The banks of the river were a deep and silent jungle wherein all manner
of wild beasts and birds were hunted; its bosom was the vasty deep out
upon which our cherished argosies were sent. And how often their
prows were unexpectedly turned by some new current into mid-stream;
sometimes saved by an assortment of missiles breathlessly thrown to
the far side, to bring them, wave-washed, back to us; sometimes, alas,
swept mercilessly out to depths where only the eye and childish grief
could follow them over the big dam to certain wreckage in the
whirlpools below, but even then not abandoned until the shore had been
patrolled for salvage as far as courage held out.
Let's go back to the banks of our beloved river, you and I - and get up
early in the morning and run to the riffles near the old cooper-shop and
catch a bucket of shiners and chubs, and then hurry on to Boomer's dam
- or 'way upstream above the Island where we used to have the
Sunday-school picnics - or, maybe just stay at the in-town dam near the
flour mills and the saw-mills where old Shoemaker Schmidt used to
catch so many big ones - fat, yellow pike and broad black-bass. We will
climb high up on the mist-soaked timbers of the mill-race and settle
ourselves contentedly with the spray moistening our faces and the
warm sun browning our hands - and the heavy pounding of falling
waters sounding in our ears so melodiously and so sweetly. Lazily,
drowsily we'll hold a bamboo pole and guide out shiner through the
foam-crowned eddies of the whirlpool, awaiting the flash of a golden
side or a lusty tug at the line; and dreamily watch a long, narrow stream
of shavings and sawdust, loosed from the opposite planing-mill, float
away on the current. And here, in the dear dream-days, the conquering
of the world will be a simple matter; for through the mist-prisms that
rise from the foaming waters below the dam only rainbows can be seen
- and there is Youth and the Springtime, and the new-born flowers and
mating birds, and The River. . . .
And when the sun is low we'll wind our poles, at the end of a rare and

great day - one that cannot die with the sunset, but that will live so long
as Memory is. Tonight we need not trudge over the fields toward home,
in happy weariness, to Her who waited and watched for us at the
window, peering through the gathering dusk until the anxious heart was
stilled by the sight of tired little legs dragging down the street past the
postoffice. We'll stay here in the twilight, and watch the fire-flies light
their fitful lamps, and the first stars blinking through the afterglow; and
when the night drops down see the black bats careening weirdly across
the moon. . . . And we'll stretch out again on the wild grass - soothed by
the fragrance of the Mayapple and the violets, and the touch of the
night-wind. . . How still it is . . . and The River doesn't seem to sound
so loud when your head's on the ground - and your eyes are closed -
and you're listening to the far, far, far-off lullaby of tumbling waters -
and you're a bit tired, Perhaps . . . a bit tired. . . .
-
The Winter Stream

Somehow The River never terrified me.
(It did mother, however!)
Perhaps it brought no fear to me because it flowed so gently and so
helpfully through such a wonderful valley of Peace and Plenty. Even in
its austere winter aspect, with its tree-banks