336 Musings by Camp- Fire and Wayside 



for fifteen years I have walked and returned, con- 

 structing a thought and then pausing to write it 

 down. The trees are dappled like fawns by the 

 sifting light of the morning sun. The whole high 

 island is the work of Nature undisturbed, except by 

 the occupancy of the cabins and the trails connect- 

 ing them — and above these she has flung arches of 

 sprays. Shall we find anything better in any other 

 or future life? I cannot imagine it. I do not 

 believe anything prettier or more refreshing ever 

 was or will be. 



In the old time of river navigation, when the 

 Mississippi and her confluences were the only ave- 

 nues of access to her vast and magnificent valley, we 

 were accustomed to loiter at the roughly built log 

 tavern of the period, or walk up and down the land- 

 ing, waiting the coming steamboat. The shores of 

 the stream were covered with forests, and the wind- 

 ing channel gave but short vistas of its waters. 

 But while yet miles away the boat would blow its 

 hoarse blast, which coming through the trees was 

 softened into solemnity, and we could sometimes 

 see her pillars of smoke rising against the horizon. 

 Then all was busy excitement, a hurrying to and 

 fro of stevedores, truckmen, and passengers. 

 When she had landed and made her exchanges, and 

 turned her prow again into the stream, there was 

 fluttering of handkerchiefs from decks to shore, and 

 not infrequently some tears. 



