d browned by exposure to many climes, he was back there
to see that old place again. We spent a whole afternoon going about
here and there and yonder, and hunting up the scenes and talking of
the crimes which we had committed so long ago. It was a heartbreaking
delight, full of pathos, laughter, and tears, all mixed together; and we
called the roll of the boys and girls that we picnicked and sweethearted
with so many years ago, and there were hardly half a dozen of them left;
the rest were in their graves; and we went up there on the summit of
that hill, a treasured place in my memory, the summit of Holiday's Hill,
and looked out again over that magnificent panorama of the Mississippi
River, sweeping along league after league, a level green paradise on one
side, and retreating capes and promontories as far as you could see on
the other, fading away in the soft, rich lights of the remote distance.
I recognized then that I was seeing now the most enchanting river view
the planet could furnish. I never knew it when I was a boy; it took an
educated eye that had travelled over the globe to know and appreciate
it; and John said, "Can you point out the place where Bear Creek used to
be before the railroad came?" I said, "Yes, it ran along yonder." "And
can you point out the swimming-hole?" "Yes, out there." And he said,
"Can you point out the place where we stole the skiff?" Well, I didn't
know which one he meant. Such a wilderness of events had intervened
since that day, more than fifty years ago, it took me more than five
minutes to call back that little incident, and then I did call it back;
it was a white skiff, and we painted it red to allay suspicion. And the
saddest, saddest man came along--a stranger he was--and he looked that
red skiff over so pathetically, and he said: "Well, if it weren't
for the complexion I'd know whose skiff that was." He said it in that
pleading way, you know, that appeals for sympathy and suggestion; we
were full of sympathy for him, but we weren't in any condition to offer
suggestions. I can see him yet as he turned away with that same sad look
on his face and vanished out of history forever. I wonder what became
of that man. I know what became of the skiff. Well, it was a beautiful
life, a lovely life. There was no crime. Merely little things like
pillaging orchards and watermelon-patches and breaking the Sabbath--we
didn't break the Sabbath often enough to signify--once a week perhaps.
But we