baskets, and saw the skirt of her gown fluttering on the tree from afar,
and the old squaw couldn't resist the temptation of procuring a new
garment, and came down and discovered the "wagee" woman and child. And
of course she gave the garment to the old squaw, as you may imagine, and
when HE came at last and rushed up to her, looking about ten years older
in his anxiety, she felt so faint again that they had to carry her to
the canoe. For, you see, he knew nothing about the flood until he met
the Indians at Utopia, and knew by the signs that the poor woman was
his wife. And at the next high tide he towed the tree away back home,
although it wasn't worth the trouble, and built another house, using the
old tree for the foundation and props, and called it after her, "Mary's
Ark!" But you may guess the next house was built above high-water mark.
And that's all.

Not much, perhaps, considering the malevolent capacity of the Dedlow
Marsh. But you must tramp over it at low water, or paddle over it at
high tide, or get lost upon it once or twice in the fog, as I have,
to understand properly Mary's adventure, or to appreciate duly the
blessings of living beyond High-Water Mark.

A LONELY RIDE

As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was a dark night,
a lonely road, and that I was the only passenger. Let me assure the
reader that I have no ulterior design in making this assertion. A
long course of light reading has forewarned me what every experienced
intelligence must confidently look for from such a statement. The
storyteller who willfully tempts Fate by such obvious beginnings; who is
to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half-murdered, or
frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced to his ladylove for the
first time, deserves to be detected. I am relieved to say that none of
these things occurred to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew
no other banditti than the regularly licensed hotelkeepers; lunatics had
not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own free
will in California stages; and my Laura, amiable and long-suffering as
she always is, could not, I fear, have borne up against these depressing
circumstances long enough to have made the slightest impression on me.

I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the
vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its
roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgul