The River and I | Page 3

the perilous flood for "faërie lands forlorn"! It made the world
seem almost empty and very lonesome.
And then the dog-days came, and I saw my river tawny, sinewy,
gaunt--a half-starved lion. The long dry bars were like the protruding
ribs of the beast when the prey is scarce, and the ropy main current was
like the lean, terrible muscles of its back.
In the spring it had roared; now it only purred. But all the while I felt in
it a dreadful economy of force, just as I have since felt it in the
presence of a great lean jungle-cat at the zoo. Here was a thing that
crouched and purred--a mewing but terrific thing. Give it an obstacle to
overcome--fling it something to devour; and lo! the crushing impact of
its leap!
And then again I saw it lying very quietly in the clutch of a bitter
winter--an awful hush upon it, and the white cerement of the snow
flung across its face. And yet, this did not seem like death; for still one
felt in it the subtle influence of a tremendous personality. It slept, but
sleeping it was still a giant. It seemed that at any moment the sleeper
might turn over, toss the white cover aside and, yawning, saunter down
the valley with its thunderous seven-league boots. And still, back and
forth across this heavy sleeper went the pigmy wagons of the farmers
taking corn to market!

[Illustration: "OFF ON THE PERILOUS FLOODS."]
[Illustration: BARRIERS FORMED BEFORE HIM.]
[Illustration: THE BOATS WRECKED IN AN ICE GORGE.]
But one day in March the far-flung arrows of the geese went over.
_Honk! honk!_ A vague, prophetic sense crept into the world out of
nowhere--part sound, part scent, and yet too vague for either. Sap
seeped from the maples. Weird mist-things went moaning through the
night. And then, for the first time, I saw my big brother win a fight!
For days, strange premonitory noises had run across the shivering
surface of the ice. Through the foggy nights, a muffled intermittent
booming went on under the wild scurrying stars. Now and then a
staccato crackling ran up the icy reaches of the river, like the sequent
bickering of Krags down a firing line. Long seams opened in the
disturbed surface, and from them came a harsh sibilance as of a line of
cavalry unsheathing sabres.
But all the while, no show of violence--only the awful quietness with
deluge potential in it. The lion was crouching for the leap.
Then one day under the warm sun a booming as of distant big guns
began. Faster and louder came the dull shaking thunders, and passed
swiftly up and down, drawling into the distance. Fissures yawned, and
the sound of the grumbling black water beneath came up. Here and
there the surface lifted--bent--broke with shriekings, groanings,
thunderings. And then----
The giant turned over, yawned and got to his feet, flinging his arms
about him! Barriers formed before him. Confidently he set his massive
shoulders against them--smashed them into little blocks, and went on
singing, shouting, toward the sea. It was a glorious victory. It made me
very proud of my big brother. And yet all the while I dreaded him--just
as I dread the caged tiger that I long to caress because he is so strong
and so beautiful.

Since then I have changed somewhat, though I am hardly as tall, and
certainly not so courageous as Alexander. But I have felt the sinews of
the old yellow giant tighen about my naked body. I have been bent
upon his hip. I have presumed to throw against his Titan strength the
craft of man. I have often swum in what seemed liquid madness to my
boyhood. And we have become acquainted through battle. No friends
like fair foes reconciled!
And I have been panting on his bars, while all about me went the
lisping laughter of my brother. For he has the strength of a god, the
headlong temper of a comet; but along with these he has the glad, mad,
irresponsible spirit of a boy. Thus ever are the epic things.
The Missouri is unique among rivers. I think God wished to teach the
beauty of a virile soul fighting its way toward peace--and His precept
was the Missouri. To me, the Amazon is a basking alligator; the Tiber
is a dream of dead glory; the Rhine is a fantastic fairy-tale; the Nile a
mummy, periodically resurrected; the Mississippi, a convenient
geographical boundary line; the Hudson, an epicurean philosopher.
But the Missouri--my brother--is the eternal Fighting Man!
I love things that yearn toward far seas: the singing Tennysonian
brooks that flow by "Philip's farm" but "go on forever"; the little Ik
Walton rivers, where one may "study to be quiet and go