The Hunters of the Ozark

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

"I was hopeful that it would keep off until we reached camp," said Fred, looking up through the tree tops at the darkening sky; "but that is too much, and we must take it as it comes."

"Push on as fast as ye choose."

Taking his friend at his word, Fred broke into a slow, easy trot, not much more rapid than an ordinary walking gait, but one which they could keep up a long time, where the ground was not too rough. Terry of course did the same, and they covered fully two miles in that manner, when they slackened their pace before an extensive rise of the ground. But for that, they would have gone much further at the same speed.

Some fifteen minutes were spent in clambering up the stony incline, when they descended into a broad valley, the path still rough and difficult of passage. They recognized a dull but increasing roar as made by a rapid torrent, and ere long stopped on the edge of a stream fifty feet wide, which dashed and foamed over the rocks, breaking into eddies, and agitated pools, falling in foamy cataracts and splashing forward again with a rollicking freedom that formed one of the prettiest and most romantic sights on which they had ever looked.

Directly at their feet was a curious formation. By some means at a remote day, a number of hard stones had been flung downward and given a spinning motion, which, acting on the softer sandstone beneath, had begun hollowing it out, as if by the chisel of an engraver. This strange operation had gone on for years, until a bowl a dozen feet across and half as deep had been formed. It was almost mathematically round, very smooth and with a tapering shape to the bottom that made the resemblance to an enormous punch bowl strikingly accurate.

This formation (which in accordance with the taste prevailing in all parts of our country, should be christened the "Devil's Punch Bowl"), was full of limpid water, fed by a slight overflow from above and overrunning and flowing calmly over the lower rim. In the bottom lay three stones, looking like cannon balls. These were the tools with which the stream had carved the Devil's Punch Bowl. Having done their work, they were resting in the bottom, where they had lain for a period that could not be guessed.

Out beyond, a thin sheet of the water hung like a transparent curtain over the edge of the rocks. It was so smooth and unruffled that it seemed stationary, like a film of glass, but, after striking the stones below, it broke into foam, whirlpools and eddies, which helped to form as lovely and picturesque a scene as the most devoted lover of nature could long to see.

The picture was so pretty indeed that the boys stood for several minutes lost in admiration. They had never viewed any thing of the kind, and it was something that would always be a pleasant memory to them.

But, great as was their admiration, there was a startling question that came to them: how was this interesting stream to be crossed?

In front and up and down the bank, the eyes searched in vain for a ford. It was idle to think of ferrying themselves over, while the cascades, pools, eddies and general "upsetting" of a broad deep stream, made its passage as perilous as that of the rapids nearer home in which the two had come so near losing their lives.