DOWN THE ST. JOE RIVER 



and sometimes on the other. Where the 

 water is still, whether deep or shallow, there 

 is the best rowing. 



Sometimes a herd of cattle make a pretty 

 picture in the current, standing belly-deep in 

 the water and cooling their hides as the river 

 washes by. They will scramble ashore as a 

 boat drifts past, if it comes too near for their 

 comfort, and lazily chew the cud till the dis- 

 turbing element has passed. Then they will 

 slide into the water again. On the steep 

 banks of the river where the beech- and 

 maple-trees hang in clusters, the tinkle of 

 sheep-bells is heard and the blatant baaings 

 of the lambs. The old sheep call back and 

 the slopes resound with the echoes. 



It is a drowsy, dreamy way of blotting 

 out a summer day drifting down with the 

 sun and shadows, with an occasional bump 

 against a half-submerged log to arouse one 

 to a sense of danger lowlands and high- 

 lands, wood, fields, and stream, and the wild- 

 blackberry vines clinging to rail fences that 

 straggle toward the tops of the hills. 



143 



