RIVERS ARE TOURIST ATTRACTIONS IN THEMSELVES

Of all the Missouri rivers I have seen, swam in, floated on, fished from or at least crossed over once, my favorite is the St. Francis. This is not surprising since I was reared less than a quarter mile from its fresh, clear flowing water. At least it was fresh and clear then. We thought nothing at all about cupping up a handful of its water to drink, or even, if a place was handy, to lie on our stomachs and sip the cool water.

The St. Francis, as I knew it, was a playful river. It flowed into, and lingered in, deep pools underneath overhanging bluffs, then, as if tired of that, flowed on to shallow, pebble-bottomed beds studded with big rocks that made the waters splash and gurgle like water fairies at play. Moving ever onward it would flow over smoothly surfaced granite boulders that made it murmur mysteriously and soothingly.

I crossed that river thousands of times by swinging bridge, by horseback, in buggies and wagons, by stepping stones when it ran shallow or barefoot when the hot days came.

We fished for perch from a handy bank or from a place we simply called the Flat Rock. It was a large rock shelf that jutted slightly over the water. Paper ash, maples, oaks, willows, elms and sycamores cast a dappled shade all up and down the banks on both sides.

Sometimes when we wearied of keeping an eye on the corks, we'd lie back and look up through the green canopy and try to spot the birds that were singing, or county the plops residents frogs made.

The river was as much a part of my growing up as the house, the barn, the cows and chickens. It was ours where it passed through our fields. Like Stevenson's Lamplighter, we felt very lucky to have it before our door and the waters brought peace to us as it did to many more.

On little sandy bars that became dry in summer, we found mussel and snail shells, lots of snail shells. Mink, `coons, `possums, wild turkeys, foxes left their tracks in the moist banks.

The river had a quick temper after a sudden shower. Flowing through a valley with semi-steep mountains on both sides where the watershed was swift, within a few hours our wide meadow would be a lake. If this happened in spring and fall migrating time, we could look out the kitchen window and see wild geese and ducks there, where horses and cows usually roamed. Most of the time, however, it was a playful happy river and I loved it.

Eventually I came to live near another river the biggest. When I first visited Cape Girardeau, along with a car full of peers, we made straightaway for the Mississippi about which we had studied so diligently in history, geography and English classes. We fancied we saw ghosts of real and fictional characters we knew so well-Marquette and Joliet, Huckleberry Finn, LaSalle, Tom Sawyer, DeSoto, Big Jim, Mark Twain, etc.

While the Mississippi is not at my doorstep, I can get to it in about seven minutes if the traffic lights cooperate. The Francis, where I knew it, was a playful pussy cat compared to the great, tawny lion of the Mississippi. Both are tourist attractions all by themselves.

Recently I felt a desire to go down to the river and sit for a while, close up, so that I could hear the lop-lop of the waters against stone and absorb some of its might and singleness of purpose which is to flow on to the sea, aloof from what man throws in it, floats on it, or takes from it. Locks and dams and piers and bridges, floating houseboats and other man-made things here and there can make it hesitate for a while as if momentarily perplexed, but nothing stops it for long.

When I arrived at the river, I felt more like standing than sitting for there wasn't much room between the water and the flood wall, due to the many June rains. Contemplating the strength of its determination to make its own right-of-way, in spite of what man puts in its way, makes a person examine his own life. Has any obstacle been erected to divert you from your goals, your values, the things you hold dear, the end result you wish to achieve? Take a hint from the river, wash it out of your way, go around it, flow over it, keep to the course you have chosen and as the river pilot would say, "Steady as you go."

REJOICE!