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Rose O' the River by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
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cataracts. Scores of bridges spanned its width, but no steamers
flurried its crystal depths. Here and there a rough little
rowboat, tethered to a willow, rocked to and fro in some quiet
bend of the shore. Here the silver gleam of a rising perch,
chub, or trout caught the eye; there a pickerel lay rigid in the
clear water, a fish carved in stone: here eels coiled in the
muddy bottom of some pool; and there, under the deep shadows of
the rocks, lay fat, sleepy bass, old, and incredibly wise, quite
untempted by, and wholly superior to, the rural fisherman's worm.

The river lapped the shores of peaceful meadows; it flowed along
banks green with maple, beech, sycamore, and birch; it fell
tempestuously over darns and fought its way between rocky cliffs
crowned with stately firs. It rolled past forests of pine and
hemlock and spruce, now gentle, now terrible; for there is said
to be an Indian curse upon the Saco, whereby, with every great
sun, the child of a paleface shall be drawn into its cruel
depths. Lashed into fury by the stony reefs that impeded its
progress, the river looked now sapphire, now gold, now white, now
leaden gray; but always it was hurrying, hurrying on its
appointed way to the sea.

After feasting his eyes and filling his heart with a morning
draught of beauty, Stephen went in from the porch and, pausing at
the stairway, called in stentorian tones: "Get up and eat your
breakfast, Rufus! The boys will be picking the side jams today,
and I'm going down to work on the logs. If you come along, bring
your own pick-pole and peavey." Then, going to the kitchen
pantry, he collected, from the various shelves, a pitcher of
milk, a loaf of bread, half an apple-pie, and a bowl of
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