<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2>
<h4>Village life—A traveling photographer—On
a country road—Studies in color—Again
among colliers—In sweet content—A
ferry romance.</h4>
<p><span class="smcap">Near Troy, Ind.</span>, Friday, June 1st.—Below
Alton, the hills are not so high as above.
We have, however, the same thoroughly rustic
landscape, the same small farms on the bottoms
and wretched cabins on the slopes, the
same frontier-like clearings thick with stumps,
the same shabby little villages, and frequent
ox-bow windings of the generous stream, with
lovely vistas unfolding and dissolving with panoramic
regularity. It is not a region where houseboaters
flourish—there is but one every ten
miles or so; as for steamboats, we see on an
average one a day, while two or three usually
pass us in the night.</p>
<p>A dry, unpainted little place is Alton, Ind.,
with three down-at-the-heel shops, a tavern, a
saloon, and a few dwellings; there was no
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page234" id="page234"></SPAN></span>
bread obtainable here, for love or money, and
we were fain to be content with a bag of
crackers from the postoffice grocery. The
promised photographer, who appears to be a
rapid traveler, was said to have gone on to
Concordia, eight miles below.</p>
<p>Deep Water Landing, Ind. (676 miles), is a
short row of new, whitewashed houses, with a
great board sign displaying the name of the
hamlet, doubtless to attract the attention of
pilots. A rude little show-case, nailed up
beside the door of the house at the head of the
landing-path, contains tempting samples of
crockery and tinware. Apparently some enterprising
soul is trying to grow a town here,
on this narrow ledge of clay, with his landing
and his shop as a nucleus. But it is an unlikely
spot, and I doubt if his "boom" will develop
to the corner-lot stage.</p>
<p>Rono, Ind., a mile below, with its limewashed
buildings set in a bower of trees, at the base
of a bald bluff, is a rather pretty study in gray
and green and white. The most notable feature
is a little school-house-like Masonic hall
set high on a stone foundation, with a steep
outer stairway—which gives one an impression
that Rono is a victim of floods, and that the
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page235" id="page235"></SPAN></span>
brethren occasionally come in boats to lodge-meetings.</p>
<p>Concordia, Ky. (681 miles), rests on the
summit of a steep clay bank, from which men
were loading a barge with bark. Great piles
of blocks, for staves, ornamented the crest of
the rise—a considerable industry for these
parts, we were told. But the photographer,
whom we were chasing, had "taken" every
Concordian who wished his services, and moved
on to Derby, another Kentucky village, which
at last we found, six miles father down the
river.</p>
<p>The principal occupation of the people of
Derby is getting out timber from the hillside
forests, six to ten miles in the interior. Oak,
elm, and sycamore railway-ties are the specialty,
these being worth twenty cents each
when landed upon the wharf. A few months
ago, Derby was completely destroyed by fire,
but, although the timber business is on the
wane here, much of the place was rebuilt on
the old foundations; hence the fresh, unpainted
buildings, with battlement fronts, which, with
the prevalence of open-door saloons and a
woodsy swagger on the part of the inhabitants,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page236" id="page236"></SPAN></span>
give the place a breezy, frontier aspect now
seldom to be met with this side of the Rockies.</p>
<p>Here at last was the traveling photographer.
His tent, flapping loudly in the wind, occupied
an empty lot in the heart of the village—a
saloon on either side, and a lumberman's
boarding house across the way, where the
"artist" was at dinner, pending which I waited
for him at the door of his canvas gallery. He
evidently seeks to magnify his calling, does
this raw youth of the camera, by affecting
what he conceives to be the traditional garb
of the artistic Bohemian, but which resembles
more closely the costume of the minstrel
stage—a battered silk hat, surmounting flowing
locks glistening with hair-oil; a loose velveteen
jacket, over a gay figured vest; and a
great brass watch-chain, from which dangle
silver coins. As this grotesque dandy, evidently
not long from his native village, came
mincing across the road in patent-leather slippers,
smoking a cigarette, with one thumb in
an arm-hole of his vest, and the other hand
twirling an incipient mustache, he was plainly
conscious of creating something of a swell in
Derby.</p>
<p>It was a crazy little dark-room to which I
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page237" id="page237"></SPAN></span>
was shown—a portable affair, much like a
coffin-case, which I expected momentarily to
upset as I stood within, and be smothered in a
cloud of ill-smelling chemicals. However,
with care I finally emerged without accident,
and sufficiently compensated the artist, who
seemed not over-favorable to amateur competition,
although he chatted freely enough about
his business. It generally took him ten days,
he said, to "finish" a town of five or six hundred
inhabitants, like Derby. He traveled on
steamers with his tenting outfit, but next season
hoped to have money enough to "do the
thing in style," in a houseboat of his own, an
establishment which would cost say four hundred
dollars; then, in the winter, he could
beach himself at some fair-sized town, and
perhaps make his board by running a local
gallery, taking to the water again on the earliest
spring "fresh." "I could live like a
fight'n' cock then, cap'n, yew jist bet yer bottom
dollar!"</p>
<p>The temperature mounted with the progress
of the day; and, the wind dying down,
the atmosphere was oppressive. By the time
Stephensport, Ky. (695 miles), was reached,
in the middle of the afternoon, the sun was
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page238" id="page238"></SPAN></span>
beating fiercely upon the glassy flood, and our
awning came again into play, although it
could not save us from the annoyance of the
reflection. The barren clay bank at the mouth
of Sinking Creek, upon which lies Stephensport,
seemed fairly ablaze with heat, as I went
up into the straggling hamlet to seek for supplies.
There were no eggs to be had here;
but, at last, milk was found in the farther end
of the village, at a modest little cottage quite
embowered in roses, with two century plants
in tubs in the back-yard, and a trim fruit and
vegetable garden to the rear of that, enclosed
in palings. I remained a few minutes to chat
with the little housewife, who knows her roses
well, and is versed in the gentle art of horticulture.
But her horizon is painfully narrow—first
and dearest, the plants about her,
which is not so bad; in a larger way, Stephensport
and its petty affairs; but beyond that
very little, and that little vague.</p>
<p>It is ever thus, in such far-away, side-tracked
villages as this—the world lies in the basin of
the hills which these people see from their
doors; if they have something to love and do for,
as this good woman has in her bushes, seeds,
and bulbs, then may they dwell happily in
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page239" id="page239"></SPAN></span>
rustic obscurity; but where, as is more common,
the small-beer of neighborhood gossip is
their meat and drink, there are no folk on the
footstool more wretched than the denizens of
a dead little hamlet like Stephensport.</p>
<p>We are housed this night on the Kentucky
side, a mile-and-a-half above Cloverport,
whose half-dozen lights are glimmering in the
stream. In the gloaming, while dinner was
being prepared, a ragged but sturdy wanderer
came into camp. He was, he said, a mountaineer
looking for work on the bottom farms;
heretofore he had, when he wanted it, always
found it; but this season no one appeared to
have any money to expend for labor, and it
seemed likely he would be obliged to return
home without receiving an offer. We made
the stranger no offer of a seat at our humble
board, having no desire that he pass the night
in our neighborhood; for darkness was coming
on apace, and, if he long tarried, the
woodland road would be as black as a pocket
before he could reach Cloverport, his alleged
destination. So starting him off with a biscuit
or two, he was soon on his way toward
the village, whistling a lively tune.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page240" id="page240"></SPAN></span>
<hr />
<p><span class="smcap">Crooked Creek, Ind.</span>, Saturday, 2d.—We
had but fairly got to bed last night, after our
late dinner, when the heavens suddenly darkened,
fierce gusts of wind shook the tent violently,
and then rain fell in blinding sheets.
For a time it was lively work for the Doctor
and me, tightening guy-ropes and ditching in
the soft sand, for we were in an exposed
position, catching the full force of the storm.
At last, everything secured, we in serenity
slept it out, awakening to find a beautiful
morning, the grape-perfumed air as clear as
crystal, the outlines of woods and hills and
streams standing out with sharp definition,
and over all a hushed charm most soothing to
the spirit.</p>
<p>Cloverport (705 miles) is a typical Kentucky
town, of somewhat less than four thousand
inhabitants. The wharf-boat, which runs up
and down an iron tramway, according to the
height of the flood, was swarming with negroes,
watching with keen delight the departure of
the "E. D. Rogan," as she noisily backed out
into the river and scattered the crowd with
great showers of spray from her gigantic stern-wheel.
It was a busy scene on board—negro
roustabouts shipping the gang-plank, and singing
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page241" id="page241"></SPAN></span>
in a low pitch an old-time plantation melody;
stokers, stripped to the waist, shoveling
coal into the gaping furnaces; chambermaids
hanging the ship's linen out to dry; passengers
crowded by the shore rail, on the main deck;
the bustling mate shouting orders, apparently
for the benefit of landsmen, for no one on
board appeared to heed him; and high up, in
front of the pilot-house, the spruce captain,
in gold-laced cap, and glass in hand, as immovable
as the Sphinx.</p>
<p>At the head of the slope were a picturesque
medley of colored folk, of true Southern plantation
types, so seldom seen north of Dixie.
Two wee picaninnies, drawn in an express
cart by a half-dozen other sable elfs, attracted
our attention, as W—— and I went up-town
for our day's marketing. We stopped to take
a snap-shot at them, to the intense satisfaction
of the little kink-haired mother of the
twins, who, barring her blue calico gown,
looked as if she might have just stepped out
of a Zulu group.</p>
<p>Cloverport has brick-works, gas wells, a
flouring-mill, and other industries. The streets
are unkempt, as in most Kentucky towns, and
mules attached to crazy little carts are the
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page242" id="page242"></SPAN></span>
chief beasts of burden; but the shops are well-stocked;
there were many farmers in town,
on horse and mule back, doing their Saturday
shopping; and an air of business confidence
prevails.</p>
<p>In this district, coal-mines again appear,
with their riverside tipples, and their offal defiling
the banks. In general, these reaches
have many of the aspects of the Monongahela,
although the hills are lower, and mining is on
a smaller scale. Cannelton, Ind. (717 miles),
is the headquarters of the American Cannel
Coal Co.; there are, also, woolen and cotton
mills, sewer-pipe factories, and potteries.
W—— and I went up into the town, on an errand
for supplies,—we distribute our small
patronage, for the sake of frequently going
ashore,—and were interested in noting the
cheery tone of the business men, who reported
that the financial depression, noticeable elsewhere
in the Ohio Valley, has practically been
unfelt here. Hawesville, Ky., just across the
river, has a similarly prosperous look, but we
did not row across to inspect it at close range.
Tell City, Ind., three miles below, is another
flourishing factory town, whose wharf-boat
was the scene of much bustle. Four miles
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page243" id="page243"></SPAN></span>
still lower down lies the sleepy little Indiana
village of Troy, which appears to have profited
nothing from having lively neighbors.</p>
<p>From the neighborhood of Derby, the environing
hills had, as we proceeded, been lessening
in height, although still ruggedly beautiful.
A mile or two below Troy, both ranges suddenly
roll back into the interior, leaving broad
bottoms on either hand, occasionally edged with
high clay banks, through which the river has
cut its devious way. At other times, these
bottoms slope gently to the beach and everywhere
are cultivated with such care that often
no room is left for the willow fringe, which
heretofore has been an ever-present feature of
the landscape. Hereafter, to the mouth, we
shall for the most part row between parallel
walls of clay, with here and there a bankside
ledge of rock and shale, and now and then a
cragged spur running out to meet the river.
We have now entered the great corn and
tobacco belt of the Lower Ohio, the region of
annual overflow, where the towns seek the
highlands, and the bottom farmers erect their
few crude buildings on posts, prepared in case
of exceptional flood to take to boats.</p>
<p>The prevalent eagerness on the part of
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page244" id="page244"></SPAN></span>
farmers to obtain the utmost from their land
made it difficult, this evening, to find a proper
camping-place. We finally found a narrow
triangle of clay terrace, in Indiana, at the
mouth of Crooked Creek (727 miles), where
not long since had tarried a houseboater engaged
in making rustic furniture. It is a pretty
little bit, in a group of big willows and sycamores,
and would be comfortable but for the
sand-flies, which for the first time give us annoyance.
The creek itself, some four rods
wide, and overhung with stately trees, winds
gracefully through the rich bottom; we have
found it a charming water to explore, being
able to proceed for nearly a mile through
lovely little wide-spreads abounding in lilies
and sweet with the odor of grape-blossoms.</p>
<p>Across the river, at Emmerick's Landing,—a
little cluster of unpainted cabins,—lies the
white barge of a photographer, just such a
home as the Derby artist covets. The Ohio
is here about half-a-mile wide, but high-pitched
voices of people on the opposite bank are plainly
heard across the smooth sounding-board; and
in the quiet evening air comes to us the "chuck-chuck"
of oars nearly a mile away. Following
a torrid afternoon, with exasperating headwinds,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page245" id="page245"></SPAN></span>
this cool, fresh atmosphere, in the long
twilight, is inspiring. Overhead is the slender
streak of the moon's first quarter, its reflection
shimmering in the broad and placid stream
rushing noiselessly by us to the sea. In blissful
content we sit upon the bank, and drink
in the glories of the night. The days of our
pilgrimage are nearing their end, but our enthusiasm
for this <i>al fresco</i> life is in no measure
abating. That we might ever thus dream and
drift upon the river of life, far from the labored
strivings of the world, is our secret wish, to-night.</p>
<p>We had long been sitting thus, having
silent communion with our thoughts, when
the Boy, his little head resting on W——'s
shoulder, broke the spell by murmuring from
the fullness of his heart, "Mother, why cannot
we keep on doing this, always?"</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="smcap">Yellowbank Island</span>, Sunday, June 3d.—Pilgrim
still attracts more attention than her
passengers. When we stop at the village
wharfs, or grate our keel upon some rustic
landing, it is not long before the Doctor, who
now always remains with the boat, no matter
who goes ashore, is surrounded by an admiring
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page246" id="page246"></SPAN></span>
group, who rap Pilgrim on the ribs, try to
lift her by the bow, and study her graceful
lines with the air of connoisseurs. Barefooted
men fishing on the shores, in broad straw
hats, and blue jeans, invariably "pass the
time o' day" with us as we glide by, crying
out as a parting salute, "Ye've a honey skiff,
thar!" or, "Right smart skiff, thet yere!"</p>
<p>We have many long, dreary reaches to-day.
Clay banks twelve to twenty feet in height,
and growing taller as the water recedes, rise
sheer on either side. Fringing the top of
each is often a row of locusts, whose roots in
a feeble way hold the soil; but the river cuts
in at the base, wherever the changing current
impinges on the shore, and at low water great
slices, with a gurgling splash, fall into the
stream, which now is of the color of dull gold,
from the clay held in solution. Often, ruins
of buildings may be seen upon the brink, that
have collapsed from this undercut of the fickle
flood; and many others, still inhabited, are in
dangerous proximity to the edge, only biding
their time.</p>
<p>This morning, we passed the Indiana hamlets
of Lewisport (731 miles) and Grand View
(736 miles), and by noon were at Rockport
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page247" id="page247"></SPAN></span>
(741 miles), a smart little city of three thousand
souls, romantically perched upon a great
rock, which on the right bank rises abruptly
from the wide expanse of bottom. From the
river, there is little to be seen of Rockport
save two wharves,—one above, the other below,
the bold cliff which springs sheer for a
hundred feet above the stream,—two angling
roads leading up into the town, a house or
two on the edge of the hill and a huge water-tower
crowning all.</p>
<p>A few miles below, we ran through a narrow
channel, a few rods wide, separating an
elongated island from the Indiana shore. It
much resembles the small tributary streams,
with a lush undergrowth of weeds down to the
water's edge, and arched with monster sycamores,
elms, maples and persimmons. Frequently
had we seen skiffs upon the shore,
arranged with stern paddle-wheels, turned by
levers operated by men standing or sitting in
the boat. But we had seen none in operation
until, shooting down this side channel, we
met such a craft coming up, manned by two
fellows, who seemed to be having a treadmill
task of it; they assured us, however, that
when a man was used to manipulating the
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page248" id="page248"></SPAN></span>
levers he found it easier than rowing, especially
in ascending stream.</p>
<p>Yellowbank Island, our camp to-night, lies
nearest the Indiana shore, with Owensboro,
Ky. (749 miles), just across the way. We
have had no more beautiful home on our long
pilgrimage than this sandy islet, heavily grown
to stately willows. While the others were
preparing dinner, I pulled across the rapid
current to an Indiana ferry-landing, where
there is a row of mean frame cabins, like the
negro quarters of a Southern farm, all elevated
on posts some four feet above the level. A
half-dozen families live there, all of them
small tenant farmers, save the ferryman—a
strapping, good-natured fellow, who appears
to be the nabob of the community.</p>
<p>Several hollow sycamore stumps house sows
and their litters; but the only cow in the
neighborhood is owned by a young man who,
when I came up, was watering some refractory
mules at a pump-trough. He paused
long enough to summon Boss and milk a
half-gallon into my pail, accepting my dime
with a degree of thankfulness which was quite
unnecessary, considering that it was <i>quid pro
quo</i>. Tobacco is a more important crop than
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page249" id="page249"></SPAN></span>
corn hereabout, he said; farmers are rather
impatiently waiting for rain, to set out the
young plants. His only outbuilding is a monster
corn-crib, set high on posts—the airy
basement, no better than an open shed, serving
for a stable; during the few weeks of
severe winter weather, horses and cow are
removed to the main floor, and canvas nailed
around the sides to keep out the wind. Even
this slight protection is not vouchsafed stock
by all planters; the majority of them appear
to provide only rain shelters, and even these
can be of slight avail in a driving storm.</p>
<p>Later, in the failing light, W—— and I pulled
together over to the "cracker" settlement,
seeking drinking-water. A stout young man
was seated on the end of the ferry barge,
talking earnestly with the ferryman's daughter,
a not unattractive girl, but pale and thin, as
these women are apt to be. Evidently they
are lovers, and not ashamed of it, for they
gave us a friendly smile as we knotted our
painter to the barge-rail, and expressed great
interest in Pilgrim, she being of a pattern new
to them.</p>
<p>We are in a noisy corner of the world.
Over on the Indiana bottom, a squeaky fiddle is
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page250" id="page250"></SPAN></span>
grinding out dance-tunes, hymns and ballads
with charming indifference. We thought we
detected in a high-pitched "Annie Laurie"
the voice of the ferryman's daughter. There
seems, too, to be a deal of rowing on the
river, evidently Owensboro folk getting back
to town from a day in the country, and country
folk hieing home after a day in the city.
The ferryman is in much demand, judging
from the frequent ringing of his bell,—one on
either bank, set between two tall posts, with
a rope dangling from the arm. At early dusk,
the cracked bell of the Owensboro Bethel resounded
harshly in our ears, as it advertised
an evening service for the floating population;
and now the wheezy strains of a melodeon
tell us that, although we stayed away, doubtless
others have been attracted thither. The
sepulchral roars of passing steamers echo
along the wooded shore, the night wind rustles
the tree-tops, Owensboro dogs are much
awake, and the electric lamps of the city
throw upon our canvas screen the fantastic
shadows of leaves and dancing boughs.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page251" id="page251"></SPAN></span>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />