A strong southeast wind is blowing straight up the broad river, driving
big undulations up the stream, counter to the current which, in turn,
pushes at the base of the waves and causes their wind-driven crests to
fall forward and break into spray. The whole surface of the river is
flecked with these whitecaps, a rare sight on an inland stream but
characteristic of April. We sit on a ledge of rock high up the slope of
the cañon and listen as they break, break, break. We may close our eyes
and fancy we are with Edmund Danton in his sea-girt dungeon, or with
Tennyson and his "cold, gray stones," or with King Canute and his
flattering courtiers on the sandy shore. But a song sparrow with his
recitative "Oleet, oleet, oleet," followed by the well-known cadenza,
dispels the fancies and calls our attention to himself as he sits on a
hop hornbeam and sings at half-minute intervals. The wind ruffles his
sober coat of brown and gray and he looks like a careless artist,
thrilling with the soul of song.

Notwithstanding the high wind there is a heavy haze through which the sun
casts but faint shadows. Across the white-flecked river the emerald
meadow rises in a mile long slope until it meets the sky in a mist of
silver blue. To the right a big tract of woodland is haloed by a denser
cloud of vivid violet as if the pillar of cloud which led the Israelites
by day had rested there; or as if mingled smoke and incense were rising
from Druid altars around the sacred grove. As a matter of fact, it is a
mingling of the ever increasing humidity, the dust particles in the air
and the smoke from many April grass fires. To the left of the meadow
there is a sweep of arable land where disc harrows, seeders, and ploughs
are at work. The unsightly corn stalks of the winter have been laid low,
the brown fields are as neat and tidy as if they had been newly swept;
and this is Iowa in April.