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. . . .