 CHAPTER 1 OF TAILS OF A VANISHING RIVER Somewhere in a large swampland, about fifty miles east of the southern end of Lake Michigan, the early French explorers found the beginning of the river. A thread-like current crept through a maze of oozy depressions, quagmires, seeping bogs and little pools, among patches of sodden brush, alders, and rank grass. With many intricate windings, the vagrant waters, swollen by numberless springs and rivulets, emerged from the tangled morass, became a living stream, and began its long and tortuous journey towards the southwest, finally to be lost in the immensity of unknown floods beyond. The explorers called the stream the akiki. In the changing nomenclature of succeeding years, it became the kankiki. It was the main confluent of the Illinois, and one of the first highways of the white man to the Mississippi. The crude topographic charts of the early voyages on the river naturally differ much in detail and accuracy, but in comparing them with our modern maps we wonder at their keen observation and the painstaking use of their limited facilities. The annals of their journeys are replete with description, legend, romance, disheartening hardship, and unremitting battle at the barriers of nature against her would-be conquerors. The name of La Salle, that resplendent figure in the exploration of the West, will be forever associated with the kankiki. There are few pages of historic lore more absorbing and thrilling to the admirer of unflinching fortitude and dauntless heroism than the dramatic story of this night errant of France and his intrepid followers. Among the woods and waters, and on the desolate frozen wastes of a strange land, they found paths that led to imperishable renown. They were avant-couriers of a new force that was to transform a wilderness into an empire, but an empire far different from that of their hopes and dreams. La Salle's little band had ascended the St. Joseph and had portaged their belongings from one of its bends about five miles away. They launched their canoes on the narrow tide of the thekiki and descended the river to the Illinois. The incentives of the expedition were to expand the dominions of Louis XIV, to extend the pale of the cross, and to find new fountains that would pour forth gold. For gold and power, man has scarred the earth he lives upon, and annihilated its creatures since the dawn of recorded time, and for gold and power will he struggle to the end, whatever and wherever the end may be, for somewhere in the scheme of creation it is so written. The moralist may find the story on the Vanishing River, as he may find it everywhere else in the world, in his study of the fabric of the foibles and passions of his kind. The old narratives mention a camp of Miami Indians, visible near the source of the river at the time of La Salle's embarkation. We may imagine that curious BDIs paired from the clustered wigwams in the distance upon the newcomers, and wondering aborigines little knowing that a serpent had entered their Eden, and thenceforth their race was to look only upon a setting sun. The river flowed through a mystic land. With magnificent sweeps and bends, it wound out on open fertile areas and into dense virgin forests, doubling to and fro in its course, widening into broad lakes and moving on to vast labyrinths of dank grass, rushes, lily-pads, trembling bogs, and impenetrable brush-tangles. The main channel often lost itself in the side currents and in mazes of rank vegetation. Here and there were little still tarns and open pools that reflected the wandering clouds by day and the changing moons at night. There were great stretches of marshy wastes and flooded lowlands, where millions upon millions of waterfall found welcome retreats and never-failing food. During the migrating seasons in the spring and fall, vast flocks of ducks were patterned against the clouds. They swooped down in endless hordes. Turbulent calls and loud trumpetings heralded the coming of serried legions of geese, swans, and brand, as they broke their ranks, settled down to the hospitable waters and floated in gentle contentment. The wild rice fields were inexhaustible granaries and intrusion into them was followed by hurried beating of hidden wings. A disturbance of a few birds would start a slowly increasing alarm. Soon the sky would be darkened by the countless flocks swarming out of miles of grasses and the air would be filled with the roar of fleeting pinions. Gradually they would return to enjoy their wanted tranquility. The feathered myriads came and went with the transient seasons, but great numbers remained nested on the bogs among the rushes and on the little oak-shaded islands in the swamps. Coats, graves, rails, and bitterns haunted the pools and runways among the thick sedges. Sudden awkward flights out of concealed covertes often startled the quiet waferer on the currents and ponds of the swamps. The solitary loons, weird calls echoed from distant open waters. Swarms of blackbirds rose out of the reeds and rice and, after vicarious circling, disappeared into other grassy retreats and livening the solitudes with their busy clamor. In the summer and autumn, flowers of the wet places bloomed in luxuriant profusion, limitless acres of pond lilies opened to their chased petals in the slumberous airs, harmonies of brilliant color bedecked at the russet robes of autumn, and far over the broad fennelins, yellow and vermilion banners waved in the soft winds of early fall. In these wild marshlands was the kingdom of the muskrat, the little villages and isolated domiciles, built of roots and rushes and plastered with mud, protruded above the surface over the wide expanses, and were concealed in cleared spaces in the high thick grasses. The pelts of these prolific and industrious little animals were speedily converted into wealth in after years. The otter and the mink hunted their prey on the marshes and in the dank labyrinths of brush and wood debris along the main stream. Beavers thrived on the tributary waters where these patient and skillful engineers built their dams and established their towns with the sagacity and foresight of their kind. On still, sunshiny days, the tribes of the turtles emerged from their myery retreats, and best in phlegmatic immobility on the sodden logs of a decayed fallen timber that littered the course of the current through the deep woodlands. The muddy fraternity would often seem to cover every low protruding object that could sustain them. At the passing of a boat, the grey masses would awake and tumble with loud splashing into the depths. The fish common to our western streams and lakes were prolific in the river. Aged men sit in hickory rocking-chairs and enliven the mythology of their winter firesides with tales of mighty catfish, bass, pike, and pickerel that once swim in the clear waters and fell victims to their lures. The finny world has not only supplied man with invaluable food, but has been a beneficent stimulant to his imaginative faculties. The choruses of the bullfrogs and the marshes and bayous at night are among the joys unforgettable to those who have listened to these concerts out on the moonlit stretches among the lily-pads and bending rushes. The corpulent gossips in the hidden places sent forth medallies of resonance sound that resemble deep tones of bass vials. They mingled with the rippling, lighter notes of the smaller frog-folk, and all blended to lyrics of nocturnal harmonies that lulled the senses and attuned the heartstrings to the voices of the little things. Colonies of blue herons nested among the sycamores and elms in the overflowed bottomlands bordering on the river. A well-known ornithologist has justly called this stately bird the symbol of the wild. Visits to the populous heronies were events long to be remembered by lovers of bird life. Sometimes eight or ten of the rudely constructed nests would occupy one tree, and within an area of perhaps twenty acres, hundreds of gawky offspring would come forth in April to be fed and guarded by the powerful bills of the older birds. These nesting retreats were often accessible from the river and a canoe floating into the dense and secluded precincts, roused instant protest from the ghostly forms perched about on the limbs. The great birds would circle out over the trees with hoarse cries, but if the intruder became motionless they would soon return and resume their family cares. The perfect reflections in the clear still waters with the inverted tracery of the treetops against the skies below, decorated with the musk figures of the herons pictured dreamlands that seemed of another world and tempted air and fancy into remote paths. The passenger pigeons came in multitudes to the river country in the fall and settled into the woods with the ripe acorns afforded abundant food. The old inhabitants tell wondrous tales of their migrations, when the innumerable flocks obscured the clouds and the sound of the passing of the grey hosts was that of a moaning wind. The gregariousness of these birds was their ruin. They congregated on the dead trees in such numbers as to often break the smaller limbs. Owls, hawks, and four-footed night marauders feasted voraciously upon them. They were easy victims for the nets and guns of the pothunders and the blind destructiveness of man wherever nature has been prodigal of her gifts. For years these beautiful creatures have been extinct, but the lesson of their going is only now beginning to be hated. The black companies of the crows kept watch and ward over the forests and dwindling waters. Their noisy parliaments were in constant session and few vistas through the woods or out over the open landscapes were without the accents of their moving forms against the sky. Among the many feathered species there are none that appear to take themselves more seriously. They are ubiquitous and most curious as to everything that exists or happens within the spheres of their activities and are so much a part of our great out-of-doors that we would miss them sadly if they were gone. Wild turkeys and partridges were plentiful in the woods and underbrush. Eagles soared in majestic flight over the country and dropped to the waters and into the forest upon their furtive prey. In the spring the woodlands were filled with melodious choirs of the smaller birds. Their enemies were few and they thrived in their happy homes. Deer were once abundant. Elkhorns have been found and there are disputed records of straggling herds of buffalo. Panther tracks were sometimes seen and the black bear, that interesting vagabond of the woods, was a faithful visitor to the wild bee trees. Wolves robed through the timber. Wild cats, foxes, woodchucks, raccoons and hundreds of smaller animals dwelt in the great forests. In this happy land lived the Miami and Potawatomi Indians. Their little villages of bark wigwams and tepees of dried skins were scattered along the small streams, the borders of the river and on the many islands that divided its course. They sat in spiritual darkness on the verdant banks until the white man came to change their gods and superstitions, but the region tamed with fish, game and wild fruits, and with their limited wants they enjoyed the average contentment of humankind. Whether or not their moral well-being improved or deteriorated under the teachings and influence of the Franciscan and Jesuit fathers and the Protestant missionaries is a question for the casualists, but the ways of the white man withered and swept them away. Unable to hold what they could not defend, they were despoiled of their heritage and exiled to other climes. Their little cemeteries are still found where the buried skeletons grimly await the great solution amid the curious decayed trappings of the past age that were interred for the use of the dead in mystical happy hunting grounds. Their problem, like ours, remains as profound as their sleep. Occasionally curious delvers into Indian history have unearthed grizzly skulls covered with mold and fragments of bones in these silent places. Many thousands of stone weapons, flint arrowheads, implements of the red man's simple agriculture and utensils of their rude housekeeping have been found in the soil of the land where once their lodges tapered into the green foliage. Traces remain of the trails that connected the villages and threaded the country in every direction. The relations between the first settlers and the Indians seem to have been harmonious, but friction of interests developed with the continued influx of the whites until the primitive law of might makes right was applied to the coveted lands. Sculptured monuments have now been erected to the red-shiftans by the descendants of those who rob them, empty and belated recognition of their equities. Many hunters and trappers came into the wild country lured by the abundant game and fur. The beavers and muskrats provided the greater part of the spoil of the trappers. Gradually the pioneer farmers began clearing tracks in the forest where they found a soil of exuberant fertility. With improved methods and firearms the annihilation of the wildlife commenced. Many hundreds of tons of scattered leaden shot lie buried in unknown myery depths that streamed into the skies at the passing flocks. The modern breach loader worked devastating havoc. The waterfall dwindled rapidly in numbers with the onward years, for the fame of the region as a sportsman's paradise was nationwide. The inroads of the trappers on the fur-bearing animals practically exterminated all but the prolific and obstinate muskrat, destined to be one of the last survivors. In later years the trappers lived in little shacks, wiki-ups, and logged cabins on the bayous near the edges of the marshes and on the banks of the tributary streams. Many of them were strange odd characters. The almost continual solitude of their lives developed their baser instincts without teaching the arts of their concealment possessed by those who have social and educational advantages. With the increasing markets for wild game they became pothunters and sold great quantities of ducks and other slaughtered birds. The rude habitations were often enlarged or rebuilt to accommodate visiting duck-shooters and fishermen, for whom they acted as guides and hosts. They began to mingle in the life of the little towns in occasional isolated cross-road stores that came into being at long distances apart where they went to dispose of their pelts and game. Queerly clad, long-haired and much bewiskered, they were picturesque figures, standing in their sharp-pointed canoes which they propelled with long-handled paddles that served as push-pulls in shallow waters. Dogs that were trained retrievers and devoted companions often occupied the boughs of the little boats. In the middle of the craft were piled wooden decoys, dead birds, muskrats, or steel traps when they journeyed to and from the marshes where they appeared in all weathers and seasons except mid-summer. During the hot months they usually loathed insolvent idleness at the stores, puttered about their shacks, or did odd jobs on the farms. There are tales of lawlessness in the country characteristic of the raw edges of civilization in a sparsely settled region. Horse-stealing appears to have been a favorite industry of evil doers, and timber thieves were numerous. In the absence of convenient jails and courts the law of the wild was administered without mercy to these and other miscreants when they were caught. Moonshiners whose interest did not conflict with local public sentiment were seldom interfered with. The infrequent investigations of emissaries of the government met with little sympathy except when they were looking for counterfeiters. The kankakee of old has gone for the lands over which bread became valuable. A mighty ditch has been excavated extending almost its entire course to deepen and straighten its channel and to drain away its marshes. The altered line of the stream left many of the rude homes of the old trappers far inland. Their occupations have ceased and they sit in melancholy silence and brood upon the past. For them the look is closed. They falter at the threshold of a new era in which nature has not fitted them to live. Ugly steam dredges with ponderous iron jaws came upon the river. Horry patriarchs of the forest were felled. Ancient roots in green banks mantled with vines were ruthlessly blasted away. The dredged scoops went into mossy retreats. Secret dens and runways were opened to the glaring light and there were many rustlings of fur to feet and wings through the invaded grasses. The limpid waters reflected mamons sinister form. The despoiler tore relentlessly through the ferny aisles in the green emboured woods and across the swamps and flowery glittering lakes the meandering loops and bends disappeared and the fecund marshlands yielded their life currents. The thousand night voices on their moon-flooded stretches were stilled. The wildlife fled. Wandering flocks in the skies looked down on the strange scene changed their courses and winged on. The passing of the river leaves its memories of musical ripplings over pebbly shoals, murmurous runes among the fallen timber, tremulous moon-paths over darkened waters. The twinkling of wispy hosts of fireflies in dreamy dusks, blended perfumes of still forests, heron-haunted bayous, enchanting islands with their perfusion of wild grapes and plums and the glories of afterglows beyond the vast marshes. The currents that once widened in silvery magnificence to their natural barriers and wandered peacefully among the mysteries of the woods now flow madly on through a man-wrought channel. Ensorrowed the gloomy waters flee with rising swirls from the land where once they crept out over the low areas and rested on their ways to the sea. In the moaning of the homeless tide we may hear the rake-wium of the river. Fields of corn and wheat stretch over the reclaimed acres for the utilitarian has triumphed over beauty and nature's providence for her wild creatures. The destruction of one of the most valuable bird refuges on the continent has almost been completed for the sake of immediate wealth. The realization of this great economic wrong must be left to future generations. The ugly dredges are finishing the desecration on the lower reaches of the stream. The vanishing river moves on through a twilight of ignorance and error for the sacrifice of our bird-life and our regions of natural beauty is the sacrifice of precious material and spiritual gifts. In the darkness of still nights pale phantom currents may creep into the denuded winding channels guided by the unseen power that directs the waters and fade into the dim mists before the dawn. Under the brooding care of the great spirit for the departed children, ghostly war-plumes may flutter softly among the leaves of the corn that wave over the red man's lost domain when the autumn winds whisper in the starlit fields for the land is papaled with shadows and has passed into the realm of legend, romance and fancy. End of Chapter 1 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 2 of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tom Hirsch Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed The Silver Arrow The story of the arrow was slowly unraveled from the tangled thread of interrupted narrative related to us by old Joaquina. She sat in her little log hut among the tall poplars and birches beyond the farther end of Whippoorwill Bayou and talked of the arrow during our visits, but never in a way that enabled us to connect the scattered fragments of the tale into proper sequence until we had heard various parts of it many times. She was a remnant of the Potawatamis. She did not know when she was born, but from her knowledge of events that happened in her lifetime, the approximate dates of which we knew, she must have been over ninety. Her solitary life and habitual silence had developed a tess eternity that steals upon those who dwell in the stillness of the forest. There was a far away look in the old eyes and a tinge of bitterness in her low voice as she talked sadly in her broken English of the days that were gone. She cherished the traditions of her people and their souros lingered in her heart. Like shriveled leaves clanging to withered bows, her memories seemed to rustle faintly when a new breath of interest touched them, and from among these rustlings we called the arrow story. The little cabin was very old. Its furnishings were in keeping with its occupant and sufficient for her simple needs. There was a rough stone fireplace at one end of the single room, a flat projecting boulder on one side of its interior provided a shelf for the few cooking utensils. They were hung on a rickety iron swinging arm over the woodfire when in use. A much worn turkey wing with charred edges lay near the hearth with which the scattered ashes were dusted back into the fireplace. A bedstead constructed of birch saplings occupied the other end of the room. Several coon and fox skins neatly sewed together and a couple of gray blankets laid over some rush mats completed the sleeping arrangements. With the exception of a few bunches of bright hewed feathers stuck about in various chinks the rough walls were bare of ornament. The other furniture consisted of a couple of low stools, a heavy rocking chair and a small pine table. A kerosene lantern and some candles illuminated this squalid interior at night. In an open space near the small patch of cultivated ground that produced a few vegetables. Sunflowers and hollyhocks grew along its edge and gave a touch of color to the surroundings. The old settlers and their families who lived in the river country provided wakina with most of her food supplies and the few other comforts that were necessary to her lonely existence. Many times I studied the rugged old face in the white. Among the melancholy lines there lurked a certain grimness and lofty reserve. There was no humility in the modeling of the determined mouth and chin. The features were those of a mother of warriors. The blood of heroes, unknown and forgotten, was in her veins. And the savage fatalism of centuries slumbered in the placid dark eyes. It was the calmed face of one who had defied vicissitude and who, with head unbowed, would meet finality. My friend the historian had known her many years and had made copious notes of her childhood recollections of the enforced departure of her tribe from the river country. She and several others had taken refuge in a swamp until the soldiers had gone. They then made their way north and dwelt for a few years near the St. Joseph, where a favored portion of the tribe was allowed to retain land, but finally returned to their old haunts. When she was quite young her mother gave her the headless arrow, which she took from one of the recesses in the log wall and showed to us. It was a slender shaft of hickory, perfectly straight, and fragments of the dyed feathers that once ornamented it still adhered to its delicately notched base. At the other end were frayed remnants of animal fiber that had once held the point in place. There were dark stains along the shaft that had survived the years. The old squaw held it tenderly in her hands as she talked of it and always replaced it carefully in the narrow niche when the subject was changed. Nearly a hundred years ago the shaft was fashioned by an old aeromaker up the river for Little Turtle, a young hunter who hoped to kill a particular bald eagle with it. For a long time the bird had soared with unconquered wings over the river country and seemed to bear a charmed life. It had successfully eluded him for nearly a year, but finally fell when the twang of Little Turtle's bow sent the new weapon into his breast as he sat unsuspectingly on a limb of a dead tree that bent over the river. The victor proudly bore his trophy to his bark canoe and paddled down the stream to whipper Will Bayou. He pulled the little craft up into the underbrush at twilight and sat quietly on the bank until the full moon came out from the trees. On the other side of the bayou were heavy masses of wild grapevines that had climbed over some dead trees and undergrowth. Through a strange freak of nature the convoluted piles had resolved themselves into grotesque shapes that in the magic sheen of the moonlight suggested the head and shoulders of a gigantic human figure with long locks and hanging brows standing at the edge of the forest. The lusty growth had crept over the lower trees in such a way that the distribution of the shadows completed the illusion. An unkempt old man seemed to stand weirdly with masses of the tangled verdu heaped over his extended hands. It was only when the moon was near the horizon that the lights and shadows produced a strange apparition. The weird figure, sculptured by the sorcery of the pale beams, was called the father of the vines by the red men, and he was believed to have an occult influence over the living things that dwelt in the forests along the river. Under one of the burdened hands was a dark grotto that led back into the mysteries of the woods and from it came the dry of a whipper-wheel. Little Turtle instantly rose, dragged out the concealed canoe, paddled silently over the moonlit water, and entered the grotto. A shadowy figure had glided out to meet him, for the whipper-wheel call was Nabawi's signal to her lover. For months the grotto had been their tristing place. 10 hours were spent there, and the great hands seemed to be held in benediction as the world-old story was told within the hidden recesses. Nabawi's father, Moosjaw, a scarred old warrior and hunter, had told White Wolf that his dark-eyed willowy daughter should go to his wigwam when the wild geese again crossed the sky, and White Wolf was anxiously counting the days that lay between him and the fruition of his hopes. He was a tall, low-browed, villainous-looking savage. He had once saved Moosjaw from an untimely death. The old Indian was crossing a frozen marsh one winter morning with a deer on his shoulders and broke through the ice. White Wolf collected his rescue. He had long gazed from afar on the light in Moosjaw's wigwam, but Nabawi's eyes were downcast when he came. He lived down the river, and the people of his village seldom came up as far as whipper will by you. His persistent visits encouraged by the grateful old Indian, and frowned upon by the flower he sought, gradually became less frequent, and finally ceased, when he learned the secret of Nabawi and Little Turtle after stealthily haunting the neighborhood of the bayou for several weeks. An evil light came into White Wolf's sinister eyes, and the fires of bloodlust kindled in his breast. He went on the path of vengeance. The savage and the esteet are alike when the coveted male or female of their kind are taken by another. He was too crafty to wage open warfare, and resolved to eliminate his rival in some way that would not arouse suspicion and resentment when he again sought Nabawi's smiles. Old Moosjaw smoked many pipes, and meditated philosophically over his daughter's obstinate disregard of the compact with White Wolf. Nabawi's mother had been dead for years, and the old Indian was easily reconciled to what happened to be his daughter's resolution to remain with him, for the little bark wigwam would be lonely without her. She went cheerfully about her various tasks, and never mentioned Little Turtle until one day they came together and told him their story. As nothing had been seen of White Wolf for a long time, the old man assumed that his ardor had cooled and finally consented to the building of the new wigwam on the bayou bank near the father of the vines, where Nabawi would still be near him. He had no objections to Little Turtle, and hoped that the obligation to White Wolf could be discharged in some other way. He rejoiced when the small black eyes of a pep who splinked at him when he visited the new wigwam one afternoon during the following summer. He spent much time with the little wild thing on his knee when she was old enough to be handled by anybody but her mother. He would sit for hours, gently swinging the birch bark cradle that hung from a low bow near the bank, for he was no longer able to hunt or fish, and took no part in the activities of the men of the village. Little Turtle's prowess apparently supplied both wigwams with food and raiment, and there was no need for further exertion. White Wolf had apparently recovered from his infatuation. He occasionally came up the river, but his connection with the affairs of the community, whose little habitations were widely scattered through the woods beyond the bayou, was considered a thing of the past. Little Turtle was highly esteemed by the men of the village, and two years after his marriage he was made its chief. The following spring delegations from the various villages along the river departed for a general powwow of the tribe near the mouth of the St. Joseph in the country of the dunes, about 80 miles away. Little Turtle and White Wolf went with them. Time had nurtured the demon in the heart of the baffled suitor, on occasions of enmity during the trip. The party broke up on its way home and took different trails. Little Turtle never returned. Nubaui pined in anguish for the homecoming, and White Wolf waited for her sorrow to pass. She spent months of misery and finally carried her aching heart to the black robe who ministered to the spiritual needs of her people after the formula of his sect in the little mission house up the river. He was a kindly counselor and listened with sympathy to her story. He belonged to that hearty and zealous band of ecclesiastics who had come into the land of another race to build new altars, and to teach what they believed to be the ways to redemption. He told Nubaui to take her sorrow to the white man's deity and gave her a small silver crucifix as a token that would bring divine consolation and peace. Forms of penance and supplication were prescribed, and she was sent away with the blessing of the devout priest. Nubaui carried her cross and during the still hours in the little wigwam she held it to her anguished breast. The months brought no surcease. In the quiet ministry of the woods there crept into her heart a belief that the magic of the black robe's god was futile. The inevitable adivism came and she departed into the silences. For a long time her whereabouts were unknown. During the bitter months her intuitive mind worked out the problem. Something that she found in the wilderness had solved the mystery of her loved one's disappearance, and when she returned she hammered her silver crucifix into an arrow-head, bound it with deer sinew to the hickory shaft of the arrow with which little turtle had killed the bald eagle and meditated upon the hour of her revenge. White Wolf was doomed and his executioner patiently bided the time for action. He renewed his visits and condoled with the sad old man but made no progress with Nubawi although she sometimes seemed to encourage his advances. One evening in the early fall he returned from a hunting trip over the marshes. He followed one of the small trails that skirted the woods near his village. A shadowy form moved silently among the trees. There was a low whirr and something sped through the dusk. When they found White Wolf in the morning the hair on one side of his head was matted with blood and a small hole led into his stilled brain but there was no clue to the motive or to the author of the tragedy. He was duly mourned and buried after the manner of his father's. Nothing off was numbered among the enigmas of the past and was soon forgotten. Nubawi continued her home life with her father and her little one but tranquility was in her face. She felt within her the glow that retribution brings to the savage heart whether it be red or white. A recompense had come to her tortured soul that softened the after years. The silver of the arrow point had achieved a mission that had failed when it bore the form of a cross. During our exploration of the sites of the old Indian villages in the river country we discovered a large pasture that had never been plowed. Traces of two well-worn trails led through it and on a little knoll near the center of the field we found appeared to be burial mounds. We were reluctant to desecrate the hallowed spot but finally yielded to the temptation to open one of them. We unearthed two skeletons. They were both in a sitting position. I picked up one of the skulls and curiously examined it. Something rattled within the uncanny relic and dropped to the grass. The small object proved to be a silver arrowhead. And walking a story came home to us with startling reality. We replaced the bones and reshaped the mound as best we could but carried with us the moldy skull and its carefully wrought messenger of death. Nearly all of the Indians in the river country were buried in a sitting position. The grim skeletons of the vanished belonged to the world that is underground. In countless huddled hordes they sit in the gloom of the fragrant earth with hands outstretched as if in mute appeal and wait through the years for whatever gods may come. In the darkness that may be eternal the disputations of theologians do not disturb the gathering mold. The multitudinous forms of reward and punishment that play an empty pageantry upon the hopes and fears of those who walk the green earth touch not the myriads in its bosom. The self-appointed who bear the lights of man born dogma and the blessings and curses of imaginary deities into the paths of the unknowable grope as blindly among pagan bones as through cathedral aisles. That evening we rode up the river to carry our story to Joaquina. She held the moldy skull in her lap for a long time and regarded it with deep interest. Sealed fountains within her aged heart seemed to well anew, for there were tears in her eyes when she raised them towards us. Joaquina was the little girl that played around the stricken wigwam on the bayou and she had treasured the stained shaft as a heritage from those she had loved. To her it was a sacred thing. The life currents it had changed had passed on, but they seemed to meet again as the gray-haired woman sat before her clickering fire with the mute toys of the fateful drama about her. We left her alone with her musings. When we came one evening a week later the door was open, but the ashes on the hearth were cold. On the rough table lay the moldy skull that was once the home of relentless passion, and near it, before its eyeless caverns, was the blood-stained shaft with the silver point neatly fitted back into its place. Joaquina may have stolen away through the solitudes of the dim forest and yielded her tired heart unto the gods of her people, for she was never again seen in the river-country. Her chastened soul may still wander in the shadowy vistas of the winter woods when the sun sinks in aureolas of crimson beyond the lasery of the tall trees that stand still and ghostly, their slender bowls tinged with the hues of red like the lost aerosheves of those who are gone. Sadly and thoughtfully we walked down the old trail that bordered the bayou. We sat for a long time on the moss-covered bank and talked of the arrow and the destinies it had touched. The pearly disc of the full moon hung in the eastern sky. A faint mist veiled the surface of the softly lisping water. An owl swept low over the bayou into the gloom of the forest. The pondlilies had closed their chalices and sealed their fragrance for another day. Hosts of tiny wings were moving among the sedges. Fireflies jammed the dark places and vanished as human lives come out of the void, waver with transient glow and are gone. There was a tender eloquence and witchery in the gentle murmurings of the night. Mystic voices were in the woods. Beyond the other shore the hoary form of the father of the vines seemed transfigured with a holy light. From somewhere in the gloom of the grotto came the plaintive notes of a whipper-will. As one crying in the wilderness knew Bowie's spirit was calling for her lost lover from among the embowered labyrinths. In the twilight's of drowsy summers the wild cadence still enchants the bayou. The moon still rides through the highways of the star-strewn skies and with pensive luster pictures the guardian of the tristing place of long ago. The shadows below the lofty forehead have deepened and the great silent figure of the weight of the onward years out yonder in the moonlit woods with humble mane he stands with the burden of the frutage in his vine-entangled hands where the hiding, purpling clusters are caught by silver beams that revel in the meshes of his leafy net of dreams. With the weariness of fulfillment his tendril-woven brow is bowed before the mystery of the eternal why and how. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 3 Of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tom Hirsch Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed The Brass Bound Box The Brass Bound Box Jerry Island was formed by one of the side currents of the river that wandered off through the woods in Lowland and rejoined the mainstream above the Big Marsh. The herons, bitterns and wild ducks swept low over the brush-entangled water-course and dropped into the quiet open places. Innumerable clusters of small mud turtles fringed the driftwood and fallen timbers that retarded the sluggish current. The patriarchs of the hard-shelled brotherhood, moss covered and intolerant spent their days on the half-submerged gray logs in Solomon's isolation. Kingfisher's crows and hawks found a fecund hunting ground along the winding byway. Squirrels and chipmunks raced over the recumbent trunks and whisked their bushy tails in the patches of sunlight that filtered through the interlacing boughs above them. At night the owls, coons, minks and muskrats explored the wet labyrinths, aged bullfrogs trumpeted dullfully and stealthy nocturnal prowlers came there to drink. Sometimes the splash of a fish broke the stillness and little rings crept away over the surface and lost themselves among the weeds and floating moss. Long ago the trails of wolves, deer and other large animals appeared in the snow on the island during the winter. Bear tracks were often found and there is a legend among the latter-day prosaics that a couple of panthers once headed Den in the neighborhood. In later years most of the winter pathways were made by foxes and rabbits and their human and canine pursuers. Near the bank of the mainstream stood a decayed but well constructed old house. It was built of faced logs with mortar between them. There were three rooms on the ground floor and some steep narrow stairs that led into an attic next to the roof that sloped to the floor along its sides. My friend Buck Granger, a gray-haired old trapper and hunter whose grandfather built the house about a hundred years ago, ushered me up the creaky stairs late one night. The alert eyes of a red squirrel appeared at us from the end of a tattered mink muff that lay on an oak chest close to the roof and vanished. Apparently the small visitor was not greatly disturbed for after two or three gentle undulations the muff was motionless. After conventional but cordial injunctions to make myself at home, Buck departed to his quarters below. The quaint and picturesque attic was full of interest. An old-fashioned bedstead stood in the room. A cumbersome homemade four-poster. Over its cord lacings was a thick feather-bed, several comforters and a multi-colored patchwork quilt. The sheets and pillow slips were of coarsely woven linen. Bunches of seed-corn and dried herbs were suspended from pegs along the timbers. Near the oak chest was a spinning wheel and a broken cradle all veiled with mantles of fine dust and cobwebs. The cradle in which incipient genius may once have slumbered was filled with bags of beans, ears of popcorn and hickory nuts. Squirrels and whitefoot mice from the surrounding woods had held high revel in the affecting horde. The cradle had guarded the infancy of many little furred families after its first usefulness had ceased, for there were cozy tangled nests of shredded cotton and woolen material among its mixed contents. Moths had worked sad havoc in the row of worn-out garments that festooned the cross-beams. Some rusty musk-rad traps and obsolete firearms were heaped in one corner with discarded hats and boots. Close to the roof near the edge of the unprotected stairway was a tall, silent clock. It was very old. Most of the veneering had chipped away from its woodwork. Parts of the enameled and grotesquely ornamented dial had scaled off and across the scarred face its one crippled hand pointed towards the figure seven. The worn mechanism had not pulsated for many years. Innumerable tiny fibers connected the top and sides of the old clock with the sloping roof timbers and a sinister watcher hairy and misshapen crouched within the mouth of a tubular web above the dial. Tenuous highways spanned the spaces between the rafters. Gauzy filaments led away into obscurities and gossamer shreds hung motionless from the upper gloom. There were mazes of webs woven by generations of spiders laden with impalpable dust and tenantless. The patient spinners had lived their little day and left their airy tissues to the mercy of the years. Like flimsy relics of human liver, the frail structures awaited the inevitable. There was an impression of mistiness and haziness in the wandering and broken fibers and the filmy labyrinths as of a brain filled with fancies that were incoheate and confused and abode of idle dreams. The web-spaned attic pictured a mind inert and fettered by dogma and tradition existence is passive and where vital currents are stilled where light is instinctively excluded and intrusion of extraneous ideas is resented. Occupants of endowed chairs in old universities, pedantic arch-classicists, smug dignitaries of established churches, and other guardians of embalmed and encrusted conclusions are ebbed to have such attics. Like the misshapen watcher within the tubular web above the dial, they crouch in musty seclusion. I opened the queer-looking bed that had evidently been made up a long time ago and lay for half an hour or so, trying to read by the light of the sputtering candle. The subtle spell of the old attic at length overcame the charm of my author and I gave myself over to a group of thronging fancies. Although the invisible inmate of the muff gave a life accent to the room, the quiet was oppressive. A sense of seclusion from realities pervaded the human belongings. Intimate personal things that only vanished hands have touched seem to possess an indefinable remoteness as if they pertain to something detached and far away and lingered in an atmosphere of spiritual loneliness. When the moonbeams came through the cobwebbed window frame and crept along the floor to the ghostly old clock, it haunted the room with a vague impression of weariness and futility. It seemed to stand in mute and solemn mockery of the eternal hours that had passed on and left it in hopeless vigil by the wayside. The watcher in the web, grim and silent like a waiting sexton, awakened on canny thought. There was gruesome suggestion in this dark stairway hole at the foot of the clock as if it had been newly dug in the earth. Like evil phantoms into an idle mind a pair of bats glided swiftly in through the open window, circled noiselessly about and departed. The moon rays touched something in the rubbish at the further end of the room that reflected a dull light. After restraining my curiosity for some time I arose, crossed the floor and picked up a strange looking box. It was about fourteen inches long, nine inches high, and a foot wide. Its hasp and small handle on the cover appeared to be of wrought iron, but the embossed facing that covered the sides and ends and the strips that protected the edges were of brass studded with nails of the same metal. It seemed in the dim light to be much corroded by time. Hoping that something might be learned of its history in the morning I placed the box on the floor near the bed and was finally seated slumber by the crickets and the crevices of the logs and rustlings of tiny feet among the contents of the cradle. Speculations regarding the brass bound box softly blended into dreams. During breakfast the next morning my host told me that the box had once belonged to a Jesuit priest. Some Indians who formerly lived on the island had given it to his grandfather and had been in the attic ever since the house was built. He had often looked at its contents but could make nothing of them and considered that they were not of much account. He said he would be glad to have me go through them and see if they were of any value. He also said that there was a bundle of old papers in the oak chest that he hoped I would look over as his grandfather had written much concerning the river and the Indians that might interest me. Filled with anticipation of congenial occupation during the rainy day, I went with Buck to the attic after breakfast. We dragged a decrepit walnut table to the window and dusted it carefully. Buck brought from the chest a small bundle that was tied up in brown paper and left it with me. The tenant of the muff had decamped, probably resenting the intrusion into his domain. I brought the brass bound box, found a comfortable hickory chair, lighted a tranquilizing pipe and was soon absorbed in the stack of closely written manuscript that I found in the bundle. Some parts of it were illegible and the spelling was unique. The old man probably considered correct spelling to be an accomplishment of mere literary hacks, and that it was not necessary for an author who had anything else to think of to pay much attention to it. There was much information regarding the Indian occupation of the river country. It appeared that there were about fifty wigwams on the island when the red men were compelled to leave by the government. Most of them were taken to a reservation out west and a number went to some lands near their kindred along the St. Joseph River in Michigan. Eventually a few returned and lived in scattered isolation but their tribal organization was broken up. The head of the village on Jerry Island was a venerable warrior named Hot Ashes. He was a friend of Buck's grandfather and it was he who gave him the brass bound box when the Indians left. He said it had been brought to the island by the black robe many years before and that he had left it in the mission house when he went away. The box had been treasured by the Indians for it was supposed for a long time to be a great medicine, but when they departed they considered it a useless burden. There had been much misfortune after the black robe left and their faith in its powers gradually ceased. The going away of the kindly priest was much mourned by his dusky flock. He was supposed to have departed on some mysterious errand and to have met fatality in the woods but they were never able to find any traces of him. Hot Ashes believed that the black robe had a great trouble as before his disappearance he neglected the work of his mission for several days and walked about on the island carrying a little bundle which he was seen to throw into the river the day he left. There was no further reference in the manuscript to the black robe or to the brass bound box which I now opened. There were two compartments divided into sections one on either side of a larger opening in the middle. These contained various small articles two of them fitted low square bottles one of which was half filled with a black powdery substance. On the label that fell off when I removed the bottle I deciphered the word Ankara. Experiment justified the conclusion that the powder had been added to water when ink was needed a dry coating on the inside of the other bottle indicated that it had been used for this purpose. In the large section were some beads that were once a rosary fragments of a silk cord that had held them together and a crucifix. At the center of each end of the box were half circular rests probably designed to hold a chalice. The space contained a breviary bound in leather and much worn some ink-stained quill pens a small box of fine sand that had been used for blotting and some loosely folded papers. They consisted mostly of letters from the superior of the mission and pertained to routine affairs, suggestions regarding the work of the little mission and congratulations on its successful progress. Comparison of the depth of the opening with the outside of the box revealed the existence of a secret space and it was only after long study and experiment that I discovered the means of access to it. On lifting its cover I found a flexible cloth-covered book and a letter enclosed in oiled silk that was much tattered. The book, which was yellow with age and frayed at the edges contained closely written pages in French, many of them much faded, obscure and places entirely obliterated. The choreography was in the main neat and methodical but apparently the writing had been done under many varying conditions that made uniformity impossible. Several small drawings were scattered through the text. Some of them showed considerable skill and care and the others were rough topographic sketches and memorandums and routes. The book was the journal of Pierre de Lisel, a young Jesuit missionary who left France in 1723 to carry salvation to the heathen in the remote wilderness of the new continent, the early entries related to his novitiate in Paris, his work in the Jesuit college and the preparations for his departure for America. They reflected his hopes for the success of his perilous undertaking. There were vague references to a deep affliction and to periods of heart-sickness and mental depression by reason of which he had taken the long and difficult path of self-denial and self-effacement that led him into the activities of the society of Jesus. He had spent the required years in the subjugation of the flesh and the sanctification of mind and soul when he went on board the vessel that was to take him to Quebec. In the hope of finding a clue to Pierre's sorrow, I extracted the letter from its silk covering. It had evidently been cherished through the vicissitudes of purification and the perils of arduous journeyings. It was signed by Marie de Beguignet and told of her love undying but hopeless and of her approach and compulsory marriage to Monsieur Le Mequis. His name did not appear in the letter. Mangled with the musty odor of the ancient missive, I thought I detected a faint lingering perfume. At least there was one in the message, if not in the paper that bore it. Several pages of the journal were devoted to the tempestuous voyage across the Atlantic and a gloomy week spent in the fog off the Grand Banks. The vessel finally reached Quebec where Pierre reported to the superior of the Canadian mission. He and several other missionaries accompanied by voyagers and Indian guides made along an eventful trip up the St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers to Georgian Bay. They skirted its shores to Lake Huron where a violent gale scattered their boats and wrecked two of them. After much danger and hardship the party landed on the wild coast but the food supplies had been lost in the turbulent waters. In an attempt to find sustenance Pierre and one companion wandered a considerable distance from the camp and lost their way in a snowstorm. They found an Indian village that had been depopulated by smallpox and took refuge in one of the squalid huts where they were besieged by a pack of wolves for several days. Had it not been for some scraps of dried fish that they fortunately found in the hut they would have starved. They were finally rescued and Pierre ascribed their deliverance to St. Francis. The Indians succeeded in killing some game in the woods and after a hazardous journey the party reached Mackinac. Pierre went from there to Green Bay. He stayed a few months and departed for the mission on the St. Joseph River where he remained a year. The journal gave many details of his life as an assistant at this mission where he baptized numerous converts and greatly increased the attendance at the mission school. In the hope of enlarging his usefulness he sent a letter to Quebec asking permission to found a new mission among the Indians inhabiting the river country south of the St. Joseph. With the doubtful means of communication the letter was a long time in reaching its destination and he had about given up hope when a favorable reply came. With one of his converts as a guide he departed for the field of his rivers. They ascended the St. Joseph in a canoe, made the portage from its headwaters and descended the Kankakee. Frequent mention was made in the journal of the faithful guide who proved invaluable and of the beautiful scenery of the route. Camps were pitched on the verdant banks at night, but once in passing through one of the vast marshes they lost the uncertain channel that compelled to sleep in the canoe. They stopped at a few Indian villages along the river and were received with kindness. The journey was continued downstream beyond Jerry Island. The populous communities above and below that point commended it to his judgment. He returned and began the work of establishing his mission. Although he found the manifold vices of paganism in the villages he was treated with bountiful hospitality. Successive feasts were prepared in his honor in which boiled dog was the pièce de resistance. Willing hands assisted in the construction of the mission house and the date of the first mass was recorded in the journal. There was much sickness among the Indians when Pierre came the nature of which did not appear. Orgies and incantations continued day and night to conjure away the academic. He performed the consolatory offices of his church in the afflicted wigwams. Soon after his arrival practically all of the sickness disappeared. Their recovered health convinced the credulous savages that the black robe possessed a mysterious power and the small bottle of black powder was thought to be a mighty magic. Inc has swayed the destinies of countless millions but here its potency seemed to have played a strange role. Much of the journal was devoted to happenings that now seem trivial but to the zealous disciple of Loyola a protagonist of his faith on a spiritual frontier they were of great moment. Detached from their contemporary human associations events must affect the emotions or the interests of the mass of mankind if their records endure. Pierre assisted in the councils, gave advice on temporal affairs, and patiently inculcated the precepts of his religion in the minds of his primitive flock. Impressive baptisms and beautiful deaths were noted at length. Converts who strayed from the fold and were induced to return were given much space. Here and there poetic reflections graced the faded pages and pious musings were recorded. Original verse and quotations from favorite authors that seemed inspired by melancholy hours mingled with the text. The names of the various saints were often used as captions for the entries, instead of calendar dates. In the back of the book was a list of names of converts, dates of baptism, marriages and deaths, and a vocabulary of about three hundred words of the Potawatomi dialect of the Algonquin language with their French equivalents. Variations in the choreography indicated that the lists had grown gradually and the editions were made with different pens. A gloomy spirit seemed to pervade the dim pages. The broken heart of Pierre de Lysel throbbed between the lines of the story of his life in the wilderness. He had carried his cross to the far places, and in isolation he yearned for the healing balm of forgetfulness on his fevered soul. There were evidences of a great mental conflict among the last entries. He mentioned the arrival at the island of Jacques Le Moyne, a Jesuit priest who was on his way to a distant post on the Mississippi and spent several weeks with him. They had been boyhood friends in France and had entered the Jesuit college at about the same time. His coming was a breath of life from the outer world. Le Moyne told him of the death of the Le Marquis de Cousel, whose existence had darkened Pierre's life and all of the precepts, tenets, and pageantry of the Church of Rome floated away as mists before a freshening wind. Pierre was born again. The dormant life currents quickened and his virile soul and body exalted in emancipation and profound hope. The entries in the journal closed with a sorrowful farewell to his spiritual charges of which they probably never knew and an expression of pathetic gratitude to his friend Jacques, who had opened a gate between desolation and earthly paradise for warm arms in France were reaching across the stormy seas and into the wilds of the new world in Paris. It seems strange that he had left the journal and the letter of Marie d'Aubigny. He was probably obsessed by his one dominant thought and naturally excluded everything not needed for his long journey, but if his mind had not been much perturbed and confused he might have taken or destroyed the journal, but he surely would have carried the journal with him. The little bundle that he threw into the river the day he left the island may have contained his sacramental chalice, for in it his lips had found bitter waters. He probably dissembled his apostasy and utilized such Jesuit facilities as were available in getting back to his native land lulling his conscience with the society of Jesus. The end justifies the means, but be that as it may the chronicles in the attic had come to an end. I sat for a long time listening to the patter of the rain on the old roof and mused over the frail memorials. There is but one great passion in the world. With it all human destiny is entwined. Volteries of established religion have ever been recruited from the disconciled. The grey walls of convents and monasteries have lured the heart-stricken, and in remote fields of pious endeavor unguents have been sought for cruel wounds. In the waste places of the earth have been scattered the ashes of despair, but while life lasts it somewhere holds the eternal chords, at hopes vibrant touch the enfeebled strings awake and attuned to the sublime strains of the great lyric. The faint echo of a song lingered in the brass-bound box. The silk-covered letter entoned a dream melody that the years had not hushed. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 4 Part 1 of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org Recording by Tom Hirsch Tales of a Vanishing River The Weather Book of Buck Granger's Grandfather Part 1 My friend Buck told me something of his grandfather's history as we sat in the genial glow of the stone fireplace the evening after I had examined the contents of the brass-bound box. The old pioneer with his wife and two sons had come west in 1810 and located on the island. He found many Indians there, and his relations with them were very friendly. A small area was cleared and cultivated on the island, but the main source of livelihood was hunting, fishing, and trapping. The woods and waters teemed with life and nature yielded easily of her abundance. The old man lived alone for many years after the death of his wife. His sons married and went farther west. Two years before he died one of the sons, Buck's father, returned with his wife and little boy to the old home. Buck was now the only surviving member of the family. His recollections of his grandfather were rather vague. He remembered him as an old man with a white bushy beard, frowsy coon skin cap, ear muffs, and fur mittens. He had spent much time with him fishing along the river and in trips through the woods. From him he had learned the ways of the big marsh and much of the unwritten lore of the forest. His stories of the old pioneer gave an impression of one who was much given to having his own way, rather crusty at times, but whose sympathy and kindness of heart were often imposed upon by those who knew him. Buck said that in the old oak chest in the attic was a lot of stuff that had belonged to his grandfather. We went to the attic the next morning and took out of the chest the odd assortment we found in it. Most of them were of no special interest. There were some old account books, several cancelled promissory notes for small amounts, and a package of receipts. One note, payable to the old man, was marked across its face, debt forgiven can't collect. I was pleased to find a bag of Indian arrowheads, beautifully made, a couple of spearheads, and a tomahawk. There was a section of a maple tree-root about a foot long in the chest that Buck said he had chopped out one winter in the woods near the marsh. A steel trap was embedded in it, and between the jaws were two bones of a coon's foot. The uneven hammer marks on the metal indicated that the trap was probably home-forged. Buck had identified it as one belonging to his grandfather, and there were others like it in the chest. Apparently the victim had dragged the trap to the foot of the tree which it was unable to climb. He had died with his leg across the young exposed root that had grown around and through the mechanism, until only a portion of the rusty chain, the end of the spring, and the upper parts of the jaws that held the little bones remained. The story of the tragedy was plainly told. In the bottom of the chest was a thick leather-bound book. On the cover was some crude lettering in black ink with labored attempts at ornamentation. On removing the dust I deciphered the inscription. Weather Book Josiah Granger Evidently its author had spent much time in keeping a record of the weather and of his life on the island. Innumerable thermometer readings filled columns at the right of the pages. After most of the dates were weather observations, comments on intrusive friends, and various things that had come within the sphere of a lonely existence. Diaries are pictures of character, unsafe repositories of intimate personal things that enlighten and betray. Among the pages were traces of petty jealousies and much harmless egotism. Here and there were patches of sunlight, touches of irony and unconscious humor. At times a tinge of pathos rattled the lines of the Weather Book. And under it all was the human story of one who, in this humble form of expression, had sought relief from solitude. As I perused the faded chronicles the figure of an old man sitting before his fire at night with his pipe and almanac, diligently recording the happenings of the days that passed in his little world seemed reality. The record covered a number of years, but extracts from the entries of 1852 will convey a general idea of the contents of the old book. January 1st this is the first of the year, and I start in not very well. Cold prevails in a good deal of snow. Snow drifts stacked around the house, can't see out, stay mostly in my blanket. January 10th lots of snow, froze hard last night, big wind. Stayed in and must hole up for rest of winter if this keeps up. Rheumatism bad. Hyrambarans come today with feet froze. It is blowing bad. Looks worse outside. Moon eclipse was predicted for the eighth, but nothing kind seen. January 12th I notice by my almanac Lady Jay Gray beheaded today in 1555 but what for does not say, and heavy rainstorms predicted but nothing of the kind. It has never been colder. I got to melt some more snow and get the pump going. She is froze hard. January 14th was out some today and it looks thawy. Thaw common. Some deer tracks on island. We'll get after deer soon. January 16th got a buck today and fixed the meat. Sun up and sunset both according to clock. Everything on schedule. Some swelling white clouds off in the west. Cold bait some. January 20th We're getting storms in these parts and a good deal of weather comes at night. Some days are clear and cold with mercury steady at zero. The moon is around but nights dark and cloudy. Moon must have been full the seventh but not seen. January 31st Month closes mild yet fly in snow. River ice some places over a foot thick. This has been a remarkable month. There was too much weather in January. The mercury gets funny now and then I don't think any thermometer is accurate. February 2nd. Big thaw has come and early in the morning a shower of rain. Got a buck on the ice at the Martian. Got the meat home late. This was yesterday. Snow is all mushy. This has been a queer day. It is now 5 p.m. February 3rd Snowflurry is mixed with rain. Ice breaking some. I hear many cracks out on the river. As I sit down to write in my weather book I believe backbone of the winter is broke. February 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Had one nice bright day again ever since a whopping big storm. Big drifts can't see out. Must get some becky appointment. Full moon was on the 5th. Good thing I got a lot of wood in. I notice in my almanac storms probable this month and this is right. February 15th out yesterday in 20 inches snow in woods. Shot three partridges near Wolves yelled all night. Seen geese flying north but they better go back. It is warmer though. Some deer crossed river last night. This is being a remarkable month. Cool and misty air prevails as I write. February 20th I was down to the marsh. This was yesterday. Got 36 rats from 42 traps. Two traps lost. Some rat houses near channel butted out by ice moving along. Seen some geese very high going north. One I think was a flock of swans. Thog and sleet tonight. February 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. All bad days. G. Washington had a birthday on the 22nd. That was my birthday too. The politics would make him sick if he could see them now. There's lots of dead people that would not like what is now going on. And we would not like some things they done if we was there. February 28th Snow most gone in hard rain. A lot of ice moving in river. I seen four flock geese five of ducks. Mostly bluebills. There's been few deer this winter. I got two bucks and one doe all fat and good condition and I got a small bear. This was over near Wildcat Swamp on the 18th and I forgot to write it down. Old Josiah and the dog was there on that date. February 29th This is leap year. Have not been out today. I'm getting throw the winter all right. February a changeable month. It closes with fogs and water high. S. Cronkite come today on his way to the marsh. His news is Ed Baxter and Fanny Noonan got married January 6th. Probably she asked him whether tonight looks thick clouds both big and black are in the west. March 5th geese coming right along now and thousands of ducks. Rats on the marsh been pretty fair. Got a lot so far but probably will find prices bad. Your Uncle Josiah was all over the oak track and boat for mallards. Got over fifty. He had on his shooting shirt. They was after the acorns in about two feet of water. This was yesterday. There's going on north and some geese going too but some will stay and make nests. March 11th two eagles lit today on the island and stayed round all PM. They may think of nesting here. Old Josiah will take a pop at them. Dense clouds are around. March 15th I notice in my almanac big floods all over the south river is predicted. Big flood here too as I write everything overflowed. River ice all gone lots of dead timber coming down and floating bushes. Most of the news you read in the almanac is bad. On most all the dates blood shed and fires and famines are noticed and many battles and deaths of kings and queens. Funny no jacks are spoken of. 62 ducks, 11 geese. Lost ammunition on a big flock. Sniper around and some plover coming in. Got 34 rats and a wolf. This was yesterday. Saw two deer at Huckleberry Bayou they left on time. There was wild cat tracks on the island Monday morning after a light bust of snow. Would like to get that cuss. He'd better look out for the old man. His skin would make a good vest. Moon was full on the sixth but I've been busy right along and not everything written down. This is a bad day and I stayed in. Awful hard rain going on as I write. You get a bucketful in the face if you open the door. High wind and probably a lot of damage somewhere. It's now 8 p.m. in your Uncle Josiah to bed. March 16th clearing weather was out but rheumatism some worse. Lost ammunition on two geese that flew over at evening. My almanac says the planetary aspects for planting potatoes will be favourable in four weeks now. I notice there has been a lot of small eminels around. Some skunks and foxes must put out some traps. March 20th clear, bright and calm and no weather now for four days. It is a new moon like a melon rind tonight and I've seen it over my left shoulder. It hangs wet in the west but this means rain. Fixing the chicken house again all skunks and foxes but weasels may get in. A wolf has been around the island. A fog prevails tonight. March 21 bad day but it gets into spring now. March 22 good weather for ducks but they fly high. Better for geese, gusty looking sky tonight. March 24th I went after them yesterday. Got no ducks but it was good weather for them. Shot 22 geese. Bad day for geese too. Got forty rats. Looks likely. March 26 got a boat full of rats. We'll skin tomorrow. This was yesterday I got the rats. Bad storm today can't see out. Weather falling bad. Old Josiah gets some mush rats all right when he goes out in his little trapping boat. March 27th cold day. Thermometer busted March 10. No cold it is but it is cold. Their mercury must be way down. Light bust the snow as I write. Must get some magic oil for stiff joints. March 28th River is froze along edges but open in the current. Duck and geese moving thick. Big bunches went over today flying high. Some deer around. Must go after deer tomorrow. A lot of J birds around the house. Crows and J birds make racket. Must have quiet. Must get bag of small shot. March 30th Got no deer yesterday. Seen one but too far off. If could have shot with a spyglass I could have got him if I had had one. Got some sassafras. Must cook some spring medicine. I now have all ingredients. March 30th March 31st Foggy today. Snape around. Light sprinkled of rain. Lost ammunition on bunch of plover flying over. Chopped some wood. Caught two weasels in the skunk. This was yesterday. Frogs are around. Got a new thermometer but I think it not accurate. The mercury is red. Probably all right for summer weather. And now taking system tonic. Good deal of Baptist weather in some snow this month but in general a fine month. Ducks and geese have been thicker than har on a dog and I done well on rats too. Got all traps out of marsh and some not mine. Spring is right on schedule. Tomorrow is April Fool's Day and a lot of them around. April 6th, 7, 8, 9, and 10. All fair days with no weather but a mushy bust of snow has come as I write. On the ninth was Good Friday. Our lord was crucified in my almanac on that day. That was a big mistake. I noticed for three days sun up and sunset late compared with clock so have set clock. Sun and clock now on schedule almanac and with my noon marker on the stump and notch in windowsill everything is all right up to date. Your Uncle Josiah knows the time of day. April 11th, I see that Henry Clay was born today in 1776. I was always a Henry Clay man. This is Easter Sunday, the day on which our lord is risen. There is a lot of people who take notice. April 15th, buds are well out and on schedule. There are freckles around the trees showing we had a hard winter. Frogs are around thick. It was bad weather for rats in January and February but they wintered well. I must go after supplies and some spring medicine. I got some business to tend to. April 18th, plant all garden sass now. Moon is right tonight and this is the time. A man come up from Beaver Lake and says hard winter thar. William Hall, a steady healthy man of good build and sober, was froze with cold. He was coming home from Mill and he lived over near West Creek. This was January 12th. He was found by two squaws out after wood. He was found furrows. He owed me some money. This was a bad day. Sky looks all cheesy tonight. April 20th, before sun up a light spatter of rain that turned into bad storm with high wind. All this must dry out then must plant. Lots of herons nesting up to Heron Town and this year came as usual in the Sycamores. Your uncle Josiah was all in there in a boat. A hooten owl was up the cottonwood last night over the house. I got up with the gun and made a bloody mess of him. They cannot hoot above your uncle while he sleeps. April 24th, Jaybirds and crows been jawing a good deal around the house and making a racket and there is a lot of fox squirrels and coons bobbing around the island when the weather is still and a bear come across. We'd like to get that cuss. Lots of wolves around. Big spring for ducks and geese but most have left. Many staying to build nests. Must see in the attic what seeds I have and then must plan. Must plant early stuff. It is now five p.m. April 26th. Got all seeds in yesterday. Robins and bluebirds and a lot of woodpeckers and chip and birds are around and they are mostly building nests. I must plant some melons. A good melon in the shade of a hot day is a fine thing. Almanac predicted April would be seasonable and this is right so far. April 30th. There are some skunks on the island maybe three or four. Frogs are pretty noisy. Then croakers keep it up. Considerable snipe around and some plover. April has been a remarkable month. Mostly wet but many fair days. There was a lot of weather between the first and the fifteenth. Lots of frogs and anybody that wants a bullfrog pie might hear if they went after it. This is the place. End of chapter 4 part 1. Recording by Tom Hirsch.