80 AUTUMN NOTES IN IOWA 



Davenport, October 25, 1885. 



For a few days here we have had perfect Octo- 

 ber weather — cahn, clear skies; clear, sweet at- 

 mosphere bathing the terraced bluffs, the broad 

 river winding between wooded banks and the 

 spires and walls of Davenport and the sister cities 

 across the Mississippi. 



About the sawmills one finds scenes quite un- 

 known to the inland country. Along the shore 

 lie great log-rafts anchored, waiting for the end- 

 less chain and the roar of rapid steel teeth. Lum- 

 bermen stalk with the nonchalance of the expert 

 over the dipping, heaving, slippery logs, selecting, 

 one by one, the next victims for the hungry jaws. 

 At least once in a lifetime, a person can watch 

 with keen interest the dumb, creeping approach 

 of the monsters up the long runway, listen to the 

 snarling crescendo and groaning diminuendo of the 

 destroyer — and shaper, maker — and whiff with 

 zest the scents of water-soaked bark, newly cut 

 lumber, and mountainous heaps of sawdust almost 

 as fragrant and as golden as the straw stack be- 

 side the thrashing-machine. The logs all bear the 

 brand of some company; from the northern forest 

 where the axes fell to these shores where cant- 

 hook, peavey, and chain guide to the great saws, 

 this industry is a private one. 



There are in this neighborhood reminders of a 

 more destructive industry, and one too important 



