urs later, and taking up
his typewriter, began to write down what he had seen, elaborating the
pencil notes which he had made. As he wrote he became conscious of an
observer, and of the approach of someone who was diffident and
curious--a familiar enough sensation of late.

He looked up, started, and reached for his hat. It was a woman, a young
woman, with bright eyes, grace, dignity--and much curiosity.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she apologized. "I was just wondering
what on earth you could be doing!"

"Oh, I'm writing--making notes----"

"Yes. But--here!"

"I'm a newspaper writer," he made his familiar statement. "My name is
Lester Terabon. I'm from New York. I came down here from St. Louis to
see the Mississippi."

"You write for newspapers?" she repeated.

She came and sat down on the bow deck of his skiff, frankly curious and
interested.

"My name's Nelia Crele," she smiled. "I'm a shanty-boater. That's my
boat."

"I'm sure I'm glad to meet you," he bowed, "Mrs. Crele."

"You find lots to write about?"

"I can't write fast enough," he replied, enthusiastically, "I've been
coming six weeks--from St. Louis. I've made more than 60,000 words in
notes already, and the more I make the more I despair of getting it all
down. Why, right here--New Madrid, Island 10, and--and----"

"And me?" she asked. "Did you stop at Gage?"

"At Stillhouse Island," he admitted, circumspectly. "Mr. Crele there
said I should be sure and tell his daughter, if I happened to meet her,
that her mother wanted her to be sure and write and let her know how she
is getting along."

"Oh, I'll do that," she assured him. "I was just writing home when you
landed in. Isn't it strange how everybody knows everybody down here, and
how you keep meeting people you know--that you've heard about? You knew
me when you saw me!"

"Yes--I'd seen your pictures."

"Mammy hadn't but one picture of me!" She stared at him.

"That's so," he thought, unused to such quick thought.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked him, looking around her. "Do you try to
write all that, too--I mean this sandbar, and those willows, and that
woods down there, and--the caving bank?"

"Everything," he admitted. "See?"

He handed her the page which he had just written. Holding it in one
hand--there was hardly a breath of air stirring--she read it word for
word.

"Yes, that's it!" She nodded her head. "How do you do it? I've just been
reading--let me see, '... the