The Indianapolis journal., 1902-11-09

river the Ohio river brings flood of
greenish COLOR Near the first public we'll
on the old road, under an old-time shingled
roof a notice board on a tall pole reads:
Mill run culvert is not passable." To the
right is Joe's little home-one room and
''lean-to'-and Joe hangs over the gate
smoking a cob pipe-his after-dinner pipe
with emblems of his fsherman's craft
everywhere around him. Nets dry on the
fence poles rest in the trees, bait cans lit
ter the ground and oars rest against the
house. Fish are plenty in the river" Joe
says. but he cant ketch 'em as fast as
he could sell EN-; meats high now and
folks want fish" Over picturesque little
gully where an unseen streamlet hidden by
a sweetwood thicket tinkles and sings un-
der bridge on its way to the river the
sandy trail goes on. At a corner near an
other old covered WELL whose iron-bound
bucket is balanced on rope over a pulley
wheel by huge rock, there is parting of
the ways. The old Clark trail turns due
north to cross Silver creek, climb the hills
and skirt Mooresville on it's westerly route.
and the 'longshore vagabonds follow an
other curve which turns around the old
Indian burying ground in Kelly's cornfield
to end at the waters edge.
Five ferries piled from CIarksville to
the other shore, in the early days; but, as
arrow-heads and fiint-chips still are found
this bit of pebbled river road doubt
less the Indian held prior occupancy.
Pebbled beaches are not numerous where
factory towns thrive, and this wandering
over the Clarksville trail to the river brink
finds its longed-for goal among the richly
hued pebbles of the wonderful Ohio.
Truly, 1t is a rare afternoon; exquisite
November in it's richest but gentlest mood;
time "to dream and dream and dream" &"
The river is low, no longer a turbid, rush.
ing current, but a green and silver pool
So frequent are the bends of this great
river that wherever it is visited the eye
can follow vista of an endless flowing
stream, but, above and below, the curving
land closes in grandly upon a seeming lake
Up the river, beyond rocky shadows, across
the graceful spans and huge stone piers of
one long bridge, the purple pennants and
banners of smoky Louisville float away
northward. A drowsy stretch of sand
bank across the water lies before old Ship
pingsport, where the fine old Tarascon man.
sion looms above the dusky brown Novem-
Der fields; while down the river under the
glimmer of the blessed Indian summer sun
shine another lace-like bridge rises nobly
10 the view, near a broad island shining
fair the stream. Between the piers of
the bridge gleam far-away rose-purple hills
overhanging the deep cleft where old Budd
road winds away. Before such a picture
November, deep tinted with Corot's spirit
OF spring. one marves that the poets have
found so much autumnal gloom where earth
and sky and air sparkle so glorously,
even unto the death. The sunshine is not
keen. but every CLINT seems to count on the
smallest ripple. the minutest bit of shell,
the tiniest red leaf, the least pearly frag-
ment of cloud.
With the time and the place, the homeliest
occupations only are concordant. On the
sandbar down stream, gravel-diggers are
at work. A fire burns there. too, and its
pale blue smoke rises fitly into the beauty
OF the November day. Be- jingle the
horses OF the gravel-teams pull their heavy
loads up the rocky road along the bank.
Up stream, Joe, the fisherman. floats in
his boat. far out among the ripples. where
the light wind Is blowing the water up
hill. idyIlic labor of "trauscendent patience
on this perfect afternoon. The beach IL
strewn with ropes and seines, skiffs hauled
up for cauIkjng, and fsh-boxes high and
dry. 'One-eyed Ajax" comes down to pick