and beat upon that
house, and it fell. In the morning there was no house there, and the
waves in their fury rushed madly on. Then these little children "stood
and wept on the banks of the river," and the desolation and fear in the
careful mother's heart, none but herself and her God can know.

They lived on in the corn-crib, and it was from it they came to hail us
as we passed to-day. Something had been told us of them on our downward
trip, and a package had been left them at "Cave-in Rock," which they had
not received. We went over shoe-tops in mud to their rude home, to find
it one room of logs, an old stone chimney, with a cheerful fire of
drift-wood and a _clean_ hearth, two wrecks of beds, a table, and two
chairs which some kind neighbor had loaned. The Government boats had
left them rations. There was an air of thrift, even in their desolation,
a plank walk was laid about the door, the floor was cleanly swept, and
the twenty-five surviving hens, for an equal number were lost in the
storm, clucked and craiked comfortably about the door, and there were
two-and-a-half dozen fresh eggs to sell us at a higher rate than paid in
town. We stood, as we had done so many scores of times during the last
few weeks, and looked this pitiful scene in the face. There were
misfortune, poverty, sorrow, want, loneliness, dread of the future, but
fortitude, courage, integrity, and honest thrift.

"Would she like to return to the childhood home in Indiana?" we asked
the mother, for we would help them go.

"No," she said tenderly. "My husband lived and died here. He is buried
here, and I would not like to go away and leave him alone. It won't be
very long, and it is a comfort to the children to be able to visit his
grave. No, I reckon we will stay here, and out of the wreck of the old
house which sticks up out of the mud, we will put up another little
hut, higher up on the bank out of the way of the floods, and if it is
only a hut, it will be a home for us and we will get into it, and make
our crop this year."

There were no dry eyes, but very still hearts, while we listened to this
sorrowful but brave little speech, made with a voice full of tears.

Our thoughtful field agent, Dr. Hubbell, was the first to speak.

"Here are six children," he said with an inquiring glance at me.

No response was needed. The thing was done. We told the mother the story
of "The Little Six" of Waterford, and asked her if that money with
enough more