The houseboat book

Next morning we set out, slowly floating with a little headwind, through a fog. Temperature at 8 a. m., 50. Natchez-under-the-hill has disappeared under the assaults of the river, and with it the wild characters that made it famous, or rather notorious. The city is now said to be as orderly and safe as any in the south. We now get fine gulf oysters at 50 cents to $1 a hundred. They come in buckets. Shell oysters are still rare. We got a small bunch of bananas at Natchez, for 60 cents.

We passed Morville, floating about three miles an hour. We have never been able to secure any data as to the speed of the current in the rivers.

Jan. 11, 1904.—We ran 42 miles yesterday, to near Union Point, tying up to a sand bar. The boys crossed to a railway camp and were told game was very abundant, so that it was hardly safe for a single man to go out with the hounds at night—bear, panther and cat. We had a head wind all day, from the west, sometimes strong enough to raise a few whitecaps, and the engine did her stunt of bucking—which shows what she is good for when in good humor. Temperature went up to 72 and hung around 70 all day. This morning at 8 it is 42. The children and dog had a much needed run on the sand. The boy needs much exercise and laboriously chops at the heaviest wood he can find.

CHAPTER XIX

THE ATCHAFALAYA

By lunch time we reached the mouth of the Red River, and found a rapid current running into it from the Mississippi. We landed on the bar and sent to town for mail, but found the postoffice had been moved to Torrasdale, several miles away—and after walking up there found no letters. At 3 p. m. we started up the Red, rapid, crooked, much in need of the services of a snag boat; weather so warm the invalid came out on deck for an hour or more. Turned into the Atchafalaya about 5 p. m., a deep stream, said to be never less than 50 feet deep. The same shelving banks as the great river, formed by the continual caving. We found a bed of pebbles at the mouth of the Red and really they were like old friends. Stone is a rarity here.

We tied up a little way beyond Elmwood Landing. Henceforth we have neither charts nor lights, but we have a born pilot in Jake, and he will pull us through. A bad day for the asthma, in spite of the warmth.

Jan. 12, 1904.—If solitude exists along the Atchafalaya it is not here. The left bank is leveed and roofs appear about every 100 yards. The right bank is lined with little trees growing down to and into the water. At Denson's Landing, or Simmesport, the right bank begins a levee; there is the inevitable gas launch, a tug, and numerous other craft, with a fish market. The wind blows dead ahead, and raises waves nearly as big as in the big river. Pretty bum houseboats, apparently occupied by blacks. Some noble trees with festoons of Spanish moss. No nibbles on the trotline last night, but a huge fish heaved his side out of the water just now. Alligator gar.

Pleasant traveling now. All day long we have voyaged along the Atchafalaya with a wind from—where? It requires a compass to determine directions here. In fact the uncertainty of things usually regarded as sure is singular. Now up north we know just where the sun is going to rise; but here the only certainty about it is its uncertainty. Now it comes up in the east—that is, over the east bank of the river; but next day it may appear in the west, north or south.

The wind was against us all morning, but since lunch—which we had at Woodside—it has been back of us or sideways, and has driven us along. Fine levees line the banks. Just now we are passing a camp at work. It is a noble river, wide and deep, with a current about as swift as the great river. Even now, when the Barbre gauge shows 6¾ feet above low water only, there is no obstruction to navigation by as large steamers as plow the Mississippi. Now and then a little spire or black stack peeping above the levee shows the presence of a village. Temperature hovers about 62. Only a solitary brace of ducks seen in this river as yet.

All afternoon we have been pursuing Melville. At 3 p. m. it was four miles away; an hour later it was five miles off, and at 5 we had gotten within three miles of the elusive town. We concluded to stop, in hopes it might get over its fear and settle down; so tied up. We ascended the levee, and a boy told us the town was within half a mile. The river is lonely, not a steamer since leaving the mouth of Red, where the Little Rufus came down and out, politely slowing up as she neared the cabin boat, to avoid rocking us. An occasional skiff is all we see, though the landing is common, but no cotton or seed, nothing but lumber.

We were correct as to our estimate of the visitors we had the other night—river pirates. Their method is to come on rainy nights when the dogs are under cover. By some plausible story they gain admittance to the cabin and then—? Have the windows guarded by stout wire screens, the doors fitted with bars, and a chain. Any visitor to a cabin boat after night is a thief, and on occasion a murderer. If he desires admittance after being told you are not a trader or whisky boat, open the chain and when he tries to enter shoot him at once. It is the sheerest folly to let one of those fellows have the first chance. No jury in the world would fail to congratulate you for ridding the river of such a character. There are no circumstances that can be imagined in which an honest man would act in the way these men did. If they wanted shelter from the rain the shore was handy. If they mistook the boat for friends, the mistake was apparent and they knew very well they had no business to continue their visit.

Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1904.—Made a good start. We got under way about 8:30, and Melville bridge soon came in view. The day is clear and warm, water smooth as glass, with no perceptible current, and the engine starts off as if nothing ever ruffled her temper.

CHAPTER XX

MELVILLE—FIRST DEER HUNT

Melville, La., Jan. 19, 1904.—We found this a quiet little town of 600 people, including negroes; with sufficient stores for our simple needs, and a daily mail east and west. We found some pleasant young gentlemen here, with plenty of leisure and hounds, and some of us go out for deer every day. So far no one has brought in any venison, but Jim and Frank have had shots.

The thermometer stands at about 60 to 70 all day; fires are superfluous except at night for the weak one, the grass and clover show up green in spots, and really we seem to have skipped winter. In the swamps the palmettoes raise their broad fans, the live oaks rear their brawny trunks, and bits of green life show up on all sides. Really, we do not see what excuse the grass has for being brown, if it be not simple force of habit, or recollection of a northern ancestry.

The negro women wear extraordinary sunbonnets, huge flaring crowns with gay trimming. The foreigners are Italians or Greeks; and are in the fruit and grocery trade. An old superannuated Confed. brings us a small pail of milk daily, for which he gets 10 cents a quart.

The river is leveed 15 miles down, and the system is being extended southward. There is a difference of opinion as to the levees, some claiming they are injurious as preventing the elevation of the land by deposit of mud; while one large sugar raiser said it would be impossible to raise crops without them. The truth seems to be that the immediate needs require the levees; but if one could let the land lie idle, or take what crops could be raised after the floods subside, it would be better for the owner of the next century to let in the water.

We have had our first deer hunt. Six of us, with four hounds, set out in the launch. Arriving at the right place we disembarked and walked through the woods about a mile, the dogs having meanwhile started out independently. Here they located us, in a small clear space, and the rest went on to their respective stands. We looked about us and were not favorably impressed with our location. It was too open. Deer coming from any quarter would see us long before we could see them. So we selected a spot where we could sit down on a log, in the shade of a huge cypress, with the best cover attainable, and yet see all over the clearing. Then we waited.

By and by we heard a noise as of breaking twigs to one side. We crouched down and held our breath, getting the rifle up so as to allow it to bear in the right direction. Waited. A little more noise, but slight. Waited. No more. Sat till our backs got stiff and feet cold. Then carefully and quietly paced up and down the path. Sat down again. Concluded to eat lunch, an expedient that rarely fails to start the ducks flying. No good for deer.

Shifted position, walked up the path to a bunch of hollies, laden with berries. A bird was at them, and as by this time our faith in deer was growing cool we concluded to take a shot at a robin. Did so. Missed him—but to our horror and relief he turned out to be a mocking bird!

Walked up the path and found a sluggish bayou with running water across it. Weren't thirsty, but doubted the wisdom of drinking that water, and that made us thirsty. Circled around the center of our clearing. Noted the way the cypresses throw up stumps from the roots. Saw a big turtle in the bayou. Red birds came about, but no robins—they are game birds here. Searched the trees for squirrels—none there. Thought of everything we could recollect—even began to enumerate our sins—and got into an animated discussion with a stranger on the negro question, awaking with a start. Shot at a hawk that roosted on a tree just out of gunshot. Scared him, anyhow.

Finally, when desperate with the task of finding expedients to keep us awake, we heard a horn blown—or wound?—and not knowing but that some one might be lost, whistled shrilly in reply. Occasionally a shot was heard here and there; once in a moon the dogs gave tongue in the remote distance. Finally one of the boys appeared, then the old uncle, and the rest came stringing in. One had seen a deer but did not get a shot at it. So we took up the line of march for the river, where the launch returned us to the cabin boat. And so ended our first deer hunt.

We have now been at it a week, and several of the boys have had shots at the animals, but no horns decorate our boat, nor does venison fill our craving stomachs. There are deer here, their evidences are as plain as those of sheep in a pasture. But the only benefit they have been to us is in the stimulation of the fancy. The weird and wonderful tales spun by those who have had shots at the elusive creatures, to account for the continued longevity and activity of their targets, are worth coming here to hear. Surely never did deer go through such antics; never did the most expert tumbler in any circus accomplish such feats of acrobatic skill. The man who catches flying bullets in his teeth should come down here and receive instruction from these deer.

We took the Missis and daughter over to Baton Rouge, and installed them in a huge, old-fashioned room, on Church St., a block from the postoffice and the leading stores; with a lady of means, who sets an excellent table, lavishly spread, and with the best of cookery, at a price that seems nominal to us. The lofty ceilings seem doubly so after the low deck of the cabin; the big canopied bed of walnut and quilted silk recalls the east; while violets, camellias, hyacinths and narcissus blooming in the open air, as well as sweet olive, and the budding magnolias, make one realize that the frozen north is not a necessity.

January 23, 1904.—We find Melville a very good place to stay—supplies plentiful, the people pleasant, and the place safe. The boys go out for deer every day, but as yet no success has rewarded them. One day they chased a doe into the river, where two boys caught her with their hands and slaughtered her. Bah!

The weather has been ideal—warm enough to make a fire oppressive save nights and mornings—but we are now having a cold snap, whose severity would make you northern folk, who sit in comfort over your registers, shiver. We have actually had a white frost two nights in succession. Fact!

On the shore close by roost at least 100 buzzards. They are protected and seem aware of it; roosting on the roof of the fish boat below us. They tell us the sharks come up here so that bathing is unsafe, and tell queer stories of the voracity and daring of the alligator gars. The alligator is by no means extinct in Louisiana, being still found of gigantic size in the bayous.

Little is said here on the negro question, which seems to be settled so well that no discussion is needed.

Day after day we sit at the typewriter and the work grows fast. Tomorrow we go to Barrow's convict camp for a shoot, and quite a lot have gathered, and are waiting till the engine chooses to start. Every day we have to push the boat from shore or we might be hard aground in the morning, as we are today. The water fell last night till it uncovered six feet of mud by the shore. The river is said to be over 100 feet deep opposite. The bridge is built on iron tubular piers that seem to be driven down till they strike a stratum capable of supporting the weight. These are said to be 100 feet deep.

January 24, 1904, we all went down to Capt. Barrow's camp for a deer hunt, which possessed no features differing from those of the five preceding. At 4 p. m. we quit, and started on our return. But the dogs had not come in, so when we got up to the old convict camp we stopped, and Budd and Jake went back for them. And there we waited till after 10 p. m. It grew quite cool so that the boys built a fire. Just on the bluff above us was an old deserted house, about ready to fall into the river when the banks shall have crumbled away a little more. We found in it an ancient mahogany four-post bedstead and a spinning-wheel, an old horn powderhorn, and other relics of antiquity.

There were our own party of four, Budd and Wally, Thomassen and his son "Sugar," Mr. Sellers (from one of the Melville stores), and two negro hunters, Brown and Pinkham—and right worthy men and good hunters they are. The fire was fed by beams from the old house, and as its cheerful warmth was felt, the scene would have been a worthy one for an artist's pencil. The odd stories and ceaseless banter of the negroes and the boy were enhanced by the curious dialect. Constantly one blew his horn, and was answered by the party who were out, or by others; and some one else was blowing for other lost dogs, so that the woods were musical. An old hound had come in early, tired out, and when the horns blew he would try to get off, but was tied; so he would give vent to his discontent in the most doleful of long-drawn-out howls, like a prolonged note from an owl. At last boys and hounds came in, and we were home to our boat by midnight.

Somehow the yoke once worn till thoroughly fitted to the neck, becomes a part of the bearer; and the best contented of the negroes were those who held with their old masters. Even the shackles of civilization become attractive in time—and we have resumed the reading of a daily paper since we can get it regularly. And we like the Picayune, finding in its editorials a quiet dignity that we appreciate, even though we may not agree with the political sentiments. And there is an air of responsibility about it; a consciousness that what it says counts, and must therefore be preceded by due deliberation, that is novel. The local color is also attractive. For instance the river news, and—the jackstaffs! Now, don't say you do not know what jackstaffs are. We will not spoil it by telling. And Lagniappe!

CHAPTER XXI

BATON ROUGE—THE PANTHER

Baton Rouge, La., Feb. 1, 1904.—While you in the North are wrestling with zero temperatures, we are experiencing what these folk term terrible winter weather. Men go about with heavy overcoats buttoned up to the chin, and I saw one the other day with a tall coonskin cap, with folds down over his neck, and earflaps. An open-grate fire is comfortable in the mornings and tempers the chill of night for the little one. Even the Chicago man finds a light overcoat advisable in the mornings, though with light-weight underwear and thin outer clothes.

Nevertheless, the violets bloom everywhere, jonquils, polyanthus narcissus, camellias and sweet olive are in bloom, and the big rose bushes are covered with leaves and buds that already show the color of the flower. The grass is green in New Orleans parks, and the magnolias are budding. Masses of chickweed cover the margins of drains and several plants of unknown lineage—to the writer—are in bloom. And this is the weather to which we constantly hear the epithet "terrible" applied here.

But residents of the North who were raised in Dixie do not freeze. Exposure to cold brings with it the ability to withstand it, and not only that but all other morbific influences as well. It increases the vitality, the power of resisting all noxious powers that threaten the health and life of man.

But this applies to the sound and well, not to those who already possess a material lesion of one or more organs. For them this soft, balmy air, this temperature that permits a maximum of exposure to the open air, are health-giving, life-prolonging, comfort-securing.

People speak of the sudden changes here—warm today and tomorrow cold—as objectionable; but so they do everywhere, and we have found no more changeability than elsewhere. And as to the rains: When it does rain it pours, but most of it has been at night so far, and during the day it dries off nicely. It it said that this is the rainy month, and we may have to modify this view later. So far the rains have not been a feature worthy of citation, as against the climate.

Much attention has been given the drinking water of late years in the riverine cities, and generally they have water on which they pride themselves. Artesian wells are mostly utilized. The river water is muddy and unsightly, but probably safe and certainly palatable. We depend on our Puritan still, and a tripoli filter, and utilize the rain water we catch in the canvas cover of the launch. No trouble has as yet affected us from this source; and we are satisfied it pays well to take precautions.

From St. Louis down the river fairly bristles with opportunities for men who understand business and have a little capital. But timber lands are pretty well taken up. An Ohio party paid $100 an acre for 100 acres here in this Atchafalaya country the other day.

The people? Well, we have simply adopted the whole—white—population, and find them delightful. There has not been a discordant note in our intercourse with this warm-hearted, hospitable folk, who unite the courtesy of the French with a sincerity that makes itself felt every moment.

Dogs! Everyone seems to own hounds here. We had a few runs with them; they came aboard and inspected us, and after due deliberation approved of us, took up their home with us and declined to stay away; so that at night one can scarcely set foot outside the cabin without stepping on a sleeping hound. Even the women folk are disarmed when these dogs look up with their big, beautiful eyes and nuzzle their cold noses into the hand for a caress. One great fellow reared up against us, placed his paws on our shoulders and silently studied our face awhile, then dropped to the ground and henceforth devoted himself to us, never being far from our side. We felt complimented!

Go out with the gun, and see how these slumberous animals awake to joyous life and activity. Then the long, musical bay, the ringing of the hunters' horns, the quick dash of the deer past your stand, with the dogs after, in full cry—say, brother, these low lands when leveed, cleared and cultivated, will yield two bales of cotton to the acre, and with cotton at 15 cents and over, is not that splendid? So shut your ears against the cry of the wild, and only consider what Progress means, and how the individual and civic wealth is increasing as these wild lands are brought under the plow and made productive of dollars. For is not all of life simply a question of dollars, and success measurable only in the bank account? So put away from you the things that make life worth living, and devote yourself with a whole heart to the task of making your son a millionaire, that he may make his son a multimillionaire, and so on. It will do you so much good in the Great Beyond to know this. That the money for which we give up all that renders life enjoyable will either render our descendants dissipated and useless, or enable them to oppress their fellowmen, need not be considered. Money is all there is in life.

The wife, daughter and Doctor are domiciled at Baton Rouge, while the boys took the boats down to Alabama Bayou for a week with the big game. Here is the small boy's report, verbatim:

Dear Mama and Papa: You talk about us not sending you any venison. If I had any money I would send you enough to make you sick. I went hunting with the boys this morning. Jim, Hudson and I went together. Bud drove with the dogs. Jake and Frank went together. Frank took his shotgun and he got lost from Jake, went to shooting robins. Jake got on an island and did not know where he got on at. He had to wade a stream two feet deep. After we had been looking for a stand we heard a shot behind us, and then a rifle shot to the right of us, and three blows of Bud's horn, which means dead deer. Jake was the first one to him, being only 300 yards. We walked two and one-half miles before we got to him. When we got there he had a big doe laying over a log. Bud drew him and they took turns carrying him home. Every tooth in my head aches from chewing venison. How are all of you? I waded about 30 ditches today over my shoe tops and one over my knees. Bud said if I followed the dogs with him he would give me first shot, and if I missed he would get him. Millie made me a belt to fit the rifle cartridges. I christened my axe in deer blood. Bud said Queen was 10 feet behind it, King 20 feet and Diamond ran up and threw the deer after it was shot. Then it got up and Diamond got it in the throat and brought it down. I will have to close as it is time to go to bed. With love to all,

    William.

Not bad for an 11-year-old. Everyone has been complaining of the terrible weather here—frost three nights last week, and a light overcoat not oppressive, though it is hardly necessary except for the tendency one has to put his hands in his pockets otherwise. We asked one of the natives what they would do in Chicago with zero weather, and he replied with an air of conviction: "Freeze to death."