ey say it's two or three hundred feet deep. Look at the steamers,
boys. How many are there?"

"I count seven pyramids of smoke," said Warner, "four in one group and
three in another. All the pyramids are becoming a little faint as the
twilight is advancing. Dick, you call me a cold mathematical person, but
this vast river flowing in its deep channel, the dark bluffs up there,
and the vast forests would make me feel mighty lonely if you fellows
were not here. It's a long way to Vermont."

"Fifteen hundred or maybe two thousand miles," said Dick, "but look
how fast the dark is coming. I was wrong in saying it's coming. It just
drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you
don't see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as
ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we've turned back three or
four hundred years."

"What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?" asked
Warner, looking curiously at Dick.

"Why, don't you see them out there?"

"See them out there? See what?"

"Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul,
George, they're the caravels of Spain! Look, they're stopping! Now they
lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man
in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing
at the ship's edge saying something. I think he's praying, boys. Now
sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the river
and disappears. It's the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters which
he discovered!"

"Dick, you're dreaming," exclaimed Pennington.

"Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a
lily. When he woke up he didn't know whether he was a Chinaman who had
dreamed he was a lily or a lily now dreaming he was a Chinaman."

"I like that story, Dick, but you've got too much imagination. The tale
of the death and burial of De Soto has always been so vivid to you that
you just stood there and re-created the scene for yourself."

"Of course that's it," said Pennington, "but why can't a fellow create
things with his mind, when things that don't exist jump right up before
his eyes? I've often seen the mirage, generally about dark, far out on
the western plains. I've seen a beautiful lake and green gardens where
there was nothing but the brown swells rolling on."

"I concede all you say," said Dick readily. "I have flashes sometimes,
and so does Ha