OUTDOORS 



falls, and the following summer the sun 

 bleaches these tangled roots till they look like 

 the wild gray hair of an old witch. The river 

 purrs under the tree like a cat. The tree heaves 

 in its uncertain moorings and takes a longer 

 slant toward the water. And some time soon 

 after, either at midday when the sun shines 

 strong on the sandy bars, or at night when the 

 moon trails like a ghost through the pallid 

 top limbs of the sycamore, there is a thunder- 

 ous crash. The tree is torn out from the bank 

 as a lock of hair from a Titan, and plunges 

 into the river with its green leaves swashing 

 the current and its form marking a long rip- 

 ple on the water. The tragedy is complete. 

 The treacherous river, the voracious river, 

 has claimed another victim. 



Afterward, long years hence, with its 

 branches stripped clean of twigs and leaves, 

 with many of the small limbs washed away 

 by the force of the current or by the brunt of 

 driftwood, the tree, denuded of its bark and 

 rising stark from the river, has become a 

 " snag," a bane of steamboat-men, the haunt 

 of black bass and something to be avoided by 

 any idler who comes down the current in his 



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