g on, but between
him and the dark was sunset.

The cold white glare changed to brilliant colours; clouds whose
gray-blue had oppressed the soul of the mountain man flashed red and
purple, growing thinner and thinner, and when he had gazed for a minute
at the glow of a fixed government light he was astonished by the
darkness of night--only the night was filled with stars.

Thus the river, the weather, the climate, the sky, the sandbars, and the
wooded banks revealed themselves in changing moods and varying lights to
the mountain man whose life had always been pent in and narrowed,
without viewpoint or a sense of the future. The monster size of the
river dwarfed the little affairs of his own life and humbled the pride
which had so often been humbled before. At last he began to look down on
himself, seeing something of the true relation of his importance to the
immeasurable efforts of thousands and millions of men.

The sand clouds carried by the north wind must ever remain an epoch in
his experience. Definitely he was rid of a great deal of nonsense,
ignorance, and pride; at the same time it seemed, somehow, to have
grounded him on something much firmer and broader than the vanities of
his youth.

His eyes searched the river in the dark for some place to begin his
work, and as they did so, he discovered a bright, glaring light a few
miles below him across the sandbar at the head of which he had anchored.
He saw other lights down that way, a regular settlement of lights across
the river, and several darting firefly gleams in the middle of the
stream which he recognized were boats, probably small gasolene craft.

In forty minutes he was dipping his sweep blades to work his way into
the eddy where several small passenger craft were on line-ends from a
large, substantial craft which was brightly lighted by lanterns and a
big carbide light. Its windows were aglow with cheeriness, and the
occupants engaged in strange pastimes.

"Come, now, come on, now!" someone was crying in a sing-song. "Come
along like I said! Come along, now--Seven--Seven--Seven!"

Parson Rasba's oar pins needed wetting, for the strain he put on the
sweeps made them squeak. The splash of oars down the current was heard
by people on board and several walked out on the deck.

"Whoe-e-e!" one hailed. "Who all mout yo' be?"

"Rasba!" the newcomer replied. "Parson Elijah Rasba, suh. Out of the
Ohio!"

"Hi-i-i!" a listener cried out, gleefully, "hyar