ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH 



GENE S. PORTER. 



"To-morrow," quoth the Deacon, "if 

 the day be fair, let us betake ourselves to 

 the river." Molly Cotton executed a cake 

 walk 3 times around the veranda, and dis- 

 appeared in the direction of the pigeon 

 loft, returning presently with a brace of fat 

 squabs, which she said would go well with 

 bread and butter for lunch. 



When we had made all other prepara- 

 tions, Molly Cotton went to bed early, and 

 the Deacon and I overhauled last year's 

 tackle. We have long since discarded 

 jointed rods, reels, silk lines, and patent 

 minnows, for river fishing. We use long 

 cane poles, stout lines and hooks; and 

 angle worms and minnows for bait, with 

 an occasional grub, or grasshopper caught 

 on the bank. 



It was the second week in April and 

 earlier than we had ever gone to the river 

 before; but on account of the wholesale 

 slaughter of fish for years, they had be- 

 come so scarce the legislature had enacted 

 a law closing the season during breeding 

 time, from May ist to July ist, after which 

 the water would be so low and the weather 

 so hot there would be practically no fish- 

 ing, so it was a case of "now or never." 



The next morning, before the rest of the 

 world was stirring, we were off. The Dea- 

 con arranged for the horse and tackle, 

 Molly Cotton stowed in a basket and 

 tiowel to gather roots for her wild flower 

 bed, while I attended to the lunch, 2 cam- 

 eras, a roll of hose, tripods, and a focussing 

 cloth. I do not remember another such 

 morning. The air was mild and balmy, the 

 sun warm, the grass a dustless, brilliant 

 green, and the trees just putting out their 

 first tender, yellowish leaves. Up to the 

 blue a skylark called over and over his 

 piercingly sweet notes. A dozen restless, 

 unmated birds flashed waves of scarlet and 

 blue and brown and yellow across our 

 paths, and rested on wayside bushes, to 

 burst into melody. A squirrel raced us 

 along a snake fence, and in a neighboring 

 field a hundred lambs frolicked about their 

 mothers. 



The Deacon held his head high and 

 pretended to drive, but the horse took the 

 bit in his teeth and cut out his own pace. 

 Molly Cotton sat straight as an arrow, her 

 cheeks flushed, and her head turning from 

 side to side, basking her soul in every de- 

 light of the day. 



There is one spot, on the banks of the 

 Wabash dearest to our hearts. About the 

 stump of a monster maple, this hundred 

 years, 5 or 6 suckers have grown to mighty 



trees. There on the curve of a massive 

 root, with a maple at my back and a stump 

 for a foot rest, is my preempted spot. 

 There is a second location, on the other 

 side, that Molly Cotton claims, and the 

 Deacon casts his bait on the waters, with 

 great expectations and few results, from a 

 log just beside. 



The suckers bit like mad. The Deacon 

 and Molly Cotton began filling the string- 

 er, and occasionally when one became in- 

 extricably entangled on my hook, threat- 

 ening to pull me in, I got it out, but how 

 can I concentrate my mind on fishing, 

 with a panorama, planned by infinity, ever 

 shifting before me? 



Twenty feet above my head a pair of 

 happily mated orioles like rifts of sunlight 

 darted to and fro, to their pendulous, half- 

 built nest, with clear, sweet notes of song. 

 A flock of bluejays, not yet disbanded, 

 flashed by, vying with the blue of 

 Heaven, and settled on a tall elm, with 

 throaty chatterings. A gaudy cardinal, on 

 a mulberry opposite us, sent over the 

 cheerful changes of his song with many 

 variations, "What cheer?" "What cheer?" 

 while his modest little Quaker mate in- 

 spected a runty thorn tree on the bank 

 with a view to housekeeping. When she had 

 called him down and they had discussed 

 the location, and heat, and water, and had 

 made 4 separate trips into that same 

 bush, my fingers itched for my camera 

 and I began to plan for the future, too. 

 A saucy catbird quarreled with every living 

 thing up one bank and down the other. 

 A bachelor brown thrush, with "inten- 

 tions," sang madly for an hour, a song 

 so exquisite that had I been a thrush lady 

 I should have flown immediately and laid 

 my heart at his feet. Blackbirds and 

 crows came to drink and bathe, the sun 

 bringing out shades of peacock green and 

 blue on their necks; and a tanager flashed 

 by with scarlet body and black wings. 

 Funny little killdeers tilted up and down 

 the bank as if on stilts. There were only 2 

 robins where a few years ago there were 

 dozens, and we missed them, for a robin's 

 rain song is a few stray notes dropped by 

 the invisible choir. On the river was the 

 "shinin' wedge o' wake that some musk- 

 rat was making," and the bass could 

 scarcely keep under water except where 

 we fished. 



A little later a lost loon, evidently strayed 

 from its flock in Northern migration, came 

 down the river. It swam slowly and made 

 long dives, but did not seem frightened. 



