Russian River is about as pretty a stream as one can view upon
a summer's day. Here at Beacham's it is very narrow and shallow, with low,
shelving beaches on either bank; but in the tiny row-boat which she
immediately secured, Ruth pushed her way into enchantment. The river winds
in and out through exquisite coves entangled in a wilderness of brambles
and lace-like ferns that are almost transparent as they bend and dip toward
the silvery waters; while, climbing over the rocky cliffs, run bracken and
the fragrant yerba-buena, till, on high, they creep as if in awe about the
great redwoods and pines of the forest.
Morning and night Ruth, in her little boat, wooed the lisping waters.
Often of a morning her mother was her companion; later on, her father or
little Ethel Tyrrell; in the evening one of the Tyrrell boys, generally
Will, was her gallant chevalier. But it was always Ruth who rowed, --Ruth
in her pretty sailor blouses, with her strong round arms and steadily
browning hands; Ruth, whose creamy face and neck remained provokingly
unreddened, and took on only a little deeper tint, as if a dash of bistre
had been softly applied. It was pleasant enough rowing down-stream with
Ruth; she always knew when to sing "Nancy Lee," and when "White Wings"
sounded prettiest.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156