Below the dam the creek winds at will through a peaceful valley, appropriating to itself an ever widening stretch from the farm lands. Sometimes it hastens down a pebbly speedway, then slackens its pace and wanders off from its course until suddenly it seems to grow alarmed, whips around a bend and comes hurrying back. Sometimes its level flood-plain is a quarter mile wide, bounded on either side by steep timbered hills which stretch on and on down the valley until the sky receives them in a glory of blue haze. Sometimes the creek has cut its way straight down the face of a high rock cliff on one side, while on the other side is a level meadow with bushy-margined ponds. In places the water of the creek lies asleep in a dream of sunshine, but further on it ripples and gurgles over a bouldered bed, walled in by rocky slopes. These are kept moist by water trickling down from hidden springs among the roots of the shrubs and vines, ferns and mosses which soften the grim limestone into beauty of form and color.
"LIES ASLEEP IN A DREAM OF SUNSHINE" (p. 111)
In the cool days of September, when walking is a fine art, I love to accompany the lower portion of the old creek down to the river, following the little path made by farmer boys and fishermen. The two posts at the fence by the roadside, set just far enough apart for a man to squeeze himself through, are the gates to a land elysian. When I pass through them I am a thousand miles from the city with its toil and pain, its strife and sorrow. Worldly cares drop from my back as I stand upon the brink of this creek and watch the water spreading itself out over the white sand. Time and distance lose their force as factors in my life. I have found and entered the lost lands of Theocritus. Beneath this black ash, touched here and there with the purple wistfulness of the passing year, Pan might have sat to play his pipes, the Cyclops might have pleaded with the graceful Galatea. This haze which hangs over the white oak grove, for aught I know, may be the incense from Druid fires. Along this valley Chaucer's Immortals may have gone a pilgriming, and in this bosky wood Robin Hood may have trained his band. The legend that from this cliff an Indian lover on his favorite pony once leaped to the creek a hundred feet below and a mighty funeral ceremony was held at the Indian mound a little farther down the valley seems to be attested both by the cliff and the mound. Before I have gone very far I am unconcernedly conscious that I have not the slightest idea in which direction lies the nearest road home, nor how far I have come. But I know that somewhere down the lavender-veiled valley the creek and myself shall reach the river at last and all will be well. There are so many beautiful things to see on the way that I would not hasten if I could. Life and the future is much like that.
There is a pleasant constancy in the companionship of a creek. It is always at home when I call, always seems to wear a smile of welcome, always has something new to offer in the way of entertainment. And it is changeless through the years. If I were to return some September afternoon after an absence of half a lifetime I should expect to see a green heron fly up the creek when I reached this particular bend and to find the kingfisher in his accustomed place on the bare branch of this patriarchal oak. At the next bend, where the current has cut the bank straight down I should look for the rows of holes made by the little colony of bank swallows. I should steal around the sharp bend by the old willow to see a little sandpiper on the boulder in mid-stream as of old. On a certain high grassy knoll I should find the woodchuck sunning himself and he would run towards his same old hole beneath the basswood tree, just as he does today. On the swampy edge of the stream I should find the perennial blossoms of this same corymbed rattle-snake root and its interesting spear-shaped leaves reflected in the water. From the dry bank just at the end of this ledge of rock my nostrils would catch the resinous odor of the creamy-flowered kuhnia and a more subtle aroma from the pearly-blossomed everlasting. The horse in the pasture would again come up and rub his nose in my hand and the cattle beneath the trees would make the same picture as in the days of long ago. Civilization can hardly spoil the creek. The spring freshets obliterate attempts at road-making and the steep hills protect it from encroachment and preserve its independence and wild beauty.
"CATTLE BENEATH THE TREES WOULD MAKE THE SAME PICTURE" (p. 116)
It is worth while to spend a little time with the friendly golden-rod which spreads all over upland and lowland almost as generous as the sunshine. To many of us one stalk of golden-rod looks much like another, but a very little study will readily enable us to distinguish between the different species and will add wonderfully to its interest and charm. There is the tall, smooth stemmed golden-rod, with saw toothed leaves, except near the base and ample pyramids of medium-sized clusters of blossoms; this is the solidago serotina, or late golden-rod. A similar golden-rod, but with hairy stems and smaller flower clusters is the solidago Canadensis or Canada golden-rod. Both these grow in the bottoms anywhere near the creek. Along the moist clay banks the elm-leaved golden-rod shows its tall stem with the leaves which give the plant its distinctive name, surmounted by several threadlike spreading branches strung with little bits of leaves and clusters of yellow blossoms at the ends, as if the slender, curving, green branches had been dipped in gold dust. On the same slopes may usually be found the zig-zag or broad-leaved golden-rod, with leaves as broad as the palm of a lady's hand and little wand-like clusters of blossoms, several of them from the axil of each leaf. This plant is called the zig-zag golden-rod because its stem often turns first one way and then the other, as if it hadn't made up its mind which way to grow. Higher up on the dry rocky banks is the gray or field golden-rod, whose small leaves are covered with grayish down and whose rather short stem is topped by a flattish pyramid of brilliant yellow flowers. This is one of the early golden-rods, but it lasts well into the fall. Another handsome species which is fairly common is the solidago rigida, or hard-leaved golden-rod, whose leaves are thick, rough and fairly broad, the lower ones sometimes a foot long, and whose flower clusters form a broad flat top. Each cluster is very large, containing twenty-five or thirty flowers if you care to pull one to pieces and count them. One stem will have several hundred of these flower clusters and each cluster contains twenty-five flowers on an average, a fine example of Nature's wealth and bounty. Perhaps the most handsome species of all, here in Iowa, is the solidago speciosa, or the showy golden-rod, which sometimes grows five, six or seven feet high in rich soil, with a stout, smooth stem and big, smooth leaves, the lower ones broadly oval and sometimes from four to ten inches long and one to four inches wide. The Missouri golden-rod is a slender and dainty species with long, narrow leaves, their margins very rough, as you may tell by drawing your fingers along them.