It seemed already
a little odd to find myself where I could not look out afar over
the prairie.
The little creek ran bank-full, but clear, and not muddy as our streams
now always are after a rain. One of the losses of Iowa through
civilization has been the disappearance of our lovely little brooks.
Then every few miles there ran a rivulet as clear as crystal, its bottom
checkered at the riffles into a brilliant pattern like plaid delaine by
the shining of the clean red, white and yellow granite pebbles through
the crossed ripples from the banks. Now these watercourses are robbed of
their flow by the absorption of the rich plowed fields, are all silted
up, and in summer are dry; and in spring and fall they are muddy
bankless wrinkles in the fields, poached full by the hoofs of cattle and
the snouts of hogs; and through many a swale, you would now be surprised
to know, in 1855 there ran a brook two feet wide in a thousand little
loops, with beautiful dark quiet pools at the turns, some of them
mantled with white water-lilies, and some with yellow. Over-hanging
banks of rooty turf, had these creeks, under which the larger and
soberer fishes lurked in dignified caution like bank presidents, too
wise for any common bait, but eager for the big good things. The
narrower reaches were all overshadowed by the long grass until you had
to part the greenery to see the water. Now such a valley is a forest of
corn unbroken by any vestige of brook, creek, rivulet or rill.
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