We gained the ultimate line of the lower lake, and followed the shore in search of its outlet, pleasingly set down on the map as Tippecanoe Creek, which ran off and joined somewhere a river of like name.
"We'll cruise here a bit and see if we can find the creek," I said, filling my pipe.
Tippecanoe! Its etymology is not in books, but goes back to the first star that ever saw itself in running water; its cadence is that of a boat gliding over ripples; its syllables flow as liquidly as a woodland spring lingering in delight over shining pebbles. The canoe alone, of all things fashioned to carry man, has a soul—and it is a soul at once obedient and perverse. And now that I had discovered the name Tippecanoe, it seemed to murmur itself from the little waves we sent singing into the reeds. My delight in it was so great, it rang in my head so insistently, that I should have missed the creek with the golden name if Ijima had not called my attention to its gathering current, that now drew us, like a tide. The lake's waters ran away, like a truant child, through a woody cleft, and in a moment we were as clean quit of the lake as though it did not exist. After a few rods the creek began to twist and turn as though with the intention of making the voyager earn his way. In the narrow channel the beat of our engine rang from the shores rebukingly, and soon, as a punishment for disturbing the peace of the little stream, we grounded on a sand-bar.
"This seems to be the head of navigation, Ijima. I believe this creek was made for canoes, not battleships."
Between us we got the launch off, and I landed on a convenient log and crawled up the bank to observe the country. I followed a stake-and-rider fence half hidden in vines of various sorts, and tramped along the bank, with the creek still singing its tortuous way below at my right hand. It was late, and long shadows now fell across the world; but every new turn in the creek tempted me, and the sharp scratch of brambles did not deter me from going on. Soon the rail fence gave way to barbed wire; the path broadened and the underbrush was neatly cut away. Within lay a small vegetable garden, carefully tilled; and farther on I saw a dark green cottage almost shut in by beeches. The path dipped sharply down and away from the cottage, and a moment later I had lost sight of it; but below, at the edge of the creek, stood a long house-boat with an extended platform or deck on the waterside.
I can still feel, as I recall the day and hour, the utter peace of the scene when first I came upon that secluded spot: the melodious flow of the creek beneath; the flutter of homing wings; even the hum of insects in the sweet, thymy air. Then a step farther and I came to a gate which opened on a flight of steps that led to the house beneath; and through the intervening tangle I saw a man sprawled at ease in a steamer chair on the deck, his arms under his head. As I watched him he sighed and turned restlessly, and I caught a glimpse of close-trimmed beard and short, thin, slightly gray hair.
The place was clearly the summer home of a city man in search of quiet, and I was turning away, when suddenly a woman's voice rang out clearly from the bank.
"Hello the house-boat!"
"Yes; I'm here!" answered the man below.
"Come on, father; I've been looking for you everywhere," called the voice again.