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Courtesy J. Sterling Morton |
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
Up hill, down dale,
Through darkest hollows
Where one has gone before,
Many another follows.
ANDERING Indian trails that lie hidden in the grass, that have been filled with the drifting leaves of many autumns—what stories they might tell! Paths
beaten so hard and deep that not all the rushing torrents of fifty summers, nor the thaws of as many springtimes, have effaced them. Perhaps you may discover one as you ride along in your cushioned carriage, for the Paleface has often followed where the Red man marked the way. You may wonder to what happy hunting ground, grassy council-seat, or primitive work-shop it might lead, if you could trace it. But corn has tasseled and wheat has waved on too many hillsides, and the wigwams of the Palesfaces have clustered too closely on prairie and plains. Yet few of the reminders of our strange Age of Fable kindle the imagination more than
an old Indian trail, winding among the grass, and leading— whither? . . . How sternly the narrow track speaks of the loneliness of man in this world, and the mystery of his end. It is something the same with the highways of the Palefaces, But they are more spacious; they suggest companionship, and might tell tales, also, if tongues were granted. They are best when the River and the hills that bulwark it have thwarted the men of the rod and chain. Your section-line road may lie never so pleaseantly between hedgerows and great old trees, beside majestic corn-fields and tall banks of sunflowers; but it will never yield the subtle enjoyment, the pleasurable sense of expectation, that comes to one who follows a winding path, as Nature decrees. Then every bend or turn is a question-mark, a speculation in futures. It is a special blessing if you are a stranger and must needs ask your way, for then you may come upon some old farmer, an ancient mariner of the prairies, who will stop his nag with a slow jerk, and, after deliberation, will tell you that your true course lies this way, then that way, then past a white house, then across, and over and beyond. How it stimulates your bewilderment!
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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,
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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!
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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