The River and I | Page 2

heard and
understood a parable from the holy lips of an Avatar. And the vast
plains of my native country are as a mystic scroll unrolled, scrawled
with a cabalistic writ of infinite things.
In the same sense, I have come to look upon the Missouri as something
more than a stream of muddy water. It gave me my first big boy dreams.
It was my ocean. I remember well the first time I looked upon my
turbulent friend, who has since become as a brother to me. It was from
a bluff at Kansas City. I know I must have been a very little boy, for the
terror I felt made me reach up to the saving forefinger of my father, lest
this insane devil-thing before me should suddenly develop an
unreasoning hunger for little boys. My father seemed as tall as
Alexander--and quite as courageous. He seemed to fear it almost not at
all. And I should have felt little surprise had he taken me in his arms
and stepped easily over that mile or so of liquid madness. He talked
calmly about it--quite calmly. He explained at what angle one should
hold one's body in the current, and how one should conduct one's legs
and arms in the whirlpools, providing one should swim across.
_Swim across!_ Why, it took a giant even to talk that way! For the
summer had smitten the distant mountains, and the June floods ran. Far
across the yellow swirl that spread out into the wooded bottom-lands,
we watched the demolition of a little town. The siege had reached the
proper stage for a sally, and the attacking forces were howling over the

walls. The sacking was in progress. Shacks, stores, outhouses suddenly
developed a frantic desire to go to St. Louis. It was a weird retreat in
very bad order. A cottage with a garret window that glared like the eye
of a Cyclops, trembled, rocked with the athletic lift of the flood, made a
panicky plunge into a convenient tree; groaned, dodged, and took off
through the brush like a scared cottontail. I felt a boy's pity and
sympathy for those houses that got up and took to their legs across the
yellow waste. It did not seem fair. I have since experienced the same
feeling for a jack-rabbit with the hounds a-yelp at its heels.
But--to swim this thing! To fight this cruel, invulnerable, resistless
giant that went roaring down the world with a huge uprooted oak tree
in its mouth for a toothpick! This yellow, sinuous beast with hell-broth
slavering from its jaws! This dare-devil boy-god that sauntered along
with a town in its pocket, and a steepled church under its arm for a
moment's toy! Swim _this_?
For days I marvelled at the magnificence of being a fullgrown man,
unafraid of big rivers.
But the first sight of the Missouri River was not enough for me. There
was a dreadful fascination about it--the fascination of all huge and
irresistible things. I had caught my first wee glimpse into the infinite; I
was six years old.
Many a lazy Sunday stroll took us back to the river; and little by little
the dread became less, and the wonder grew--and a little love crept in.
In my boy heart I condoned its treachery and its giant sins. For, after all,
it sinned through excess of strength, not through weakness. And that is
the eternal way of virile things. We watched the steamboats loading for
what seemed to me far distant ports. (How the world shrinks!) A
double stream of "roosters" coming and going at a dog-trot rushed the
freight aboard; and at the foot of the gang-plank the mate swore
masterfully while the perspiration dripped from the point of his nose.
And then--the raucous whistles blew. They reminded me of the lions
roaring at the circus. The gang-plank went up, the hawsers went in. The
snub nose of the steamer swung out with a quiet majesty. Now she feels

the urge of the flood, and yields herself to it, already dwindled to half
her size. The pilot turns his wheel--he looks very big and quiet and
masterful up there. The boat veers round; bells jangle. And now the
engine wakens in earnest. She breathes with spurts of vapor!
Breathed? No, it was sighing; for about it all clung an inexplicable
sadness for me--the sadness that clings about all strong and beautiful
things that must leave their moorings and go very, very far away. (I
have since heard it said that river boats are not beautiful!) My throat
felt as though it had smoke in it. I felt that this queenly thing really
wanted to stay; for far down the muddy swirl where she dwindled,
dwindled, I heard her sobbing hoarsely.
Off on