“WITH THE NEXT BEND IN THE RIVER
THE SLEEPY VILLAGE IS GONE”
an’ drawed some pitchers of it. He made one o’ the old man with ’is pipe showin’. He was some city feller, an’ had to git the old man to help ’im with ’is boat ’round the dam. The old man’s got a pitcher ’e made of ’im stickin’ up in the mill now. A feller like him oughter larn some trade, instid o’ foolin’ away ’is time makin’ pitchers. Nobody ’ud ever buy one o’ them dam’ things in a thousand years. I’ll bet ’e was spyin’ fer the railroad, an’ they’ll prob’ly be ’long here makin’ a survey before long.”
A little farther down is a loose-jointed bridge with some patent medicine signs on it. Another sign tells the users not to drive over the structure “faster than a walk.” Any kind of a speed limit in this slumbrous land seems preposterous, but the cautionary board is there, peppered over with little holes, made by repeated charges of small shot, and partially defaced with sundry initials cut into it with jack-knives. Some crude and unknown humorist has changed some of the letters and syllables in the patent medicine signs, and made them even more eloquent.
Another lone fisherman is on the bridge, watching a cork that bobs idly on the dimpled tide below. Another single suspender supports some deteriorated overalls. Possibly the freckled boy up the river was wearing the rest of the suspenders. He is an old man, with heavy gray eyebrows, and long white whiskers that sway gently in the soft wind. His face has an air of patient resignation. He wears a faded colored shirt and a weather-beaten straw hat. His feet, encased in cowhide boots, hang down over the edge of the rickety structure, and he sadly shakes his head when asked if he has caught any fish. His lure has been ineffectual and he is about ready to go home. There is still a faint lingering hope that the cork may be suddenly submerged, and the appearance of a new object of interest has decided him to remain a little while longer.
He explains that “the wind ain’t right fer fishin’. I’ve seen fish caught off’en this bridge so fast you couldn’t bait the hooks, but the wind has to be south. Besides the water’s all roily to-day an’ the fish can’t see nothin’. I bin drownin’ worms ’ere most all day, an’ I ain’t had a bite, an’ I’m goin’ to quit.”
Just after the boat had passed under the bridge, a dead minnow floated along on the current. A large pickerel broke water and seized it. His sweeping tail made a loud swish, and the water boiled with commotion as he turned and dove with his prize.
Instantly the dejected figure on the bridge became thrilled with a new life, and a torrent of profanity filled the air.
“Now wot d’ye think o’ that! The gosh dangled idjut’s bin ’round ’ere all the time, an’ me settin’ ’ere with worms fer ’im. They’s a lot o’ fish in this ’ere river that I’ll teach sumpen to before I’m through with ’em. I’m a pretty old man, but you bet I’m goin’ to play the game while I’m ’ere. I wonder where ’e went with that dam’ minnie!”
The boat goes tranquilly on, and in the dim distance the old man is actively moving around on the bridge, flourishing his cane pole and casting the tempting bait all over the surface of the water, evidently hoping that the “gosh dangled idjut” will rise again.
The river now comes to the beginning of the vast marsh, through which its well-defined channel follows a tortuous route among big wet stretches of high grasses and bulrushes, winds with innumerable turns, makes long sweeps and loops, and comes back, almost doubling itself in its serpentine course. The current slackens and the water becomes deeper.