. Then he
dropped down the chute into the main river to resume his search for
really interesting "histories."

The river had never been more glorious than that morning. The sun shone
from a white, misty sky. It was warm, with the slight tang of autumn,
and the yellow leaves were fluttering down; squirrels were barking, and
a flock of geese, so high in the air that they sparkled, in the
sunshine, were gossiping, and the music of their voices rained upon the
river surface as upon a sounding board.

Terabon was approaching Donaldson's Point, Winchester Chute, Island No.
10, and New Madrid. An asterisk on his map showed that Slough Neck was
interesting, and sure enough, he found a 60-foot boat just above Upper
Slough Landing, anchored off the sandbar. This was a notorious whiskey
boat, and just below it was a flight of steps up the steep bank. No
plantation darky ever used those steps. He would rather scramble in the
loose silt and risk his neck than climb that easy stairway--yes,
indeed!

Terabon, drifting by, close at hand, gazed at the scene. From that craft
Negroes had gone forth to commit crime; white men had gone out to do
murder, and one of them had rolled down those steps, shot dead. On the
other side of Slough Neck, just outside of Tiptonville, there was a tree
on which seven men had been lynched.

He pulled across to the foot of Island No. 10 sandbar, to walk up over
that historic ground, and to visit the remnants of Winchester Chute
where General Grant had moored barges carrying huge mortars with which
to drop shells into the Confederate works on Island No. 10.

He hailed a shanty-boat just below where he landed, and as the window
opened and he saw someone within, he asked:

"Will you kindly watch my skiff? I'm going up over the island."

"Yes, glad to!"

"Thank you." He bowed, and went upon his exploration.

It was hard to believe that this sandbar, grown to switch willows which
increased to poles six or seven inches in diameter, had once been a big
island covered with stalwart trees, with earthworks, cannon, and
desperate soldiers. Its serene quiet, undulating sands and casual
weed-trees, showing the stain of floods that had filled the bark with
sediment, proved the indifference of the river to fleeting human
affairs--the trifling work of human hands had been washed away in a
spring tide or two, and Island No. 10 was half way to the Gulf by this
time.

Terabon returned to his skiff three or four ho