HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
Roads lead out from the Old Town to many a spot that is fair. They will conduct you past venerable orchards,— small need have we to wonder at our great Foremother; between fields where the rustling corn grows tall and stately; ![]() upon level avenues under the shadows of lofty walnut trees; close to a white mill in the wild-wood; over red bridges, where you may look down into a quiet pool, or mimic cataract; until at last you come out upon a high bluff where the wind blows free from the River, and you can view the "Big Muddy" in all its majesty,—a fitting climax of your pilgrimage. The road that does not afford you at least a glimpse of the old River may be pleasing, but it is like an unfinished picture, a sonata robbed of its final chord. Once, it is told me, there was a veritable River road high on the bluffs. But it has gone the way to oblivion with the Indian trail, and lies buried beneath corn-fields; or perhaps it may be that the River wooed and won it, and bore it away in the night. What an impressionist is Nature! She does not favor every clime with her great exhibition pictures, canvasses adjudged the prize by all men. But her simple beauties, her lesser works of wonder, are everywhere in the world. Surely the Old Town has fared well at her gracious hands, partly because the builders of the city gave her aid. The River, a masterpiece in water colors, is the chef d’oeuvre, and the Hills are perfect in drawing and coloring. But her gallery is filled with sketches of smaller design, pictured poems that to see once is to remember always. There are turns in the road where the sunlight lies tangled with leaf shadows in your path, and the most beautiful blue of all is before you at the crest of the hill. The trees, sprung from wind blown seed, are grouped with a repose all Nature’s own. The dull gray roads of men are framed,
where Nature has her way, in gorgeous settings,—flowers of purple, scarlet, and golds. Oh, she splashes color on her canvas as no disciple of hers would dare!
Well, to ride along such highways and byways is a true worship for a Sabbath afternoon. One would wish to keep on roaming. But when the twilight comes, like a beautiful gray angel, whose robe is silence and shadow, and whose breath is a soft hand on your brow, then it is good to turn your face back to the Old Town, feelings as men of every kindred have felt, that the best road of all is the road that leads Home. ![]() The River Return to Legacy © 2001, Lynn Waterman |