or love or money, and we were fain to
be content with a bag of crackers from the postoffice grocery. The
promised photographer, who appears to be a rapid traveler, was said to
have gone on to Concordia, eight miles below.

Deep Water Landing, Ind. (676 miles), is a short row of new,
whitewashed houses, with a great board sign displaying the name of the
hamlet, doubtless to attract the attention of pilots. A rude little
show-case, nailed up beside the door of the house at the head of
the landing-path, contains tempting samples of crockery and tinware.
Apparently some enterprising soul is trying to grow a town here, on
this narrow ledge of clay, with his landing and his shop as a nucleus.
But it is an unlikely spot, and I doubt if his "boom" will develop to
the corner-lot stage.

Rono, Ind., a mile below, with its limewashed buildings set in a bower
of trees, at the base of a bald bluff, is a rather pretty study
in gray and green and white. The most notable feature is a little
school-house-like Masonic hall set high on a stone foundation, with
a steep outer stairway--which gives one an impression that Rono is a
victim of floods, and that the brethren occasionally come in boats to
lodge-meetings.

Concordia, Ky. (681 miles), rests on the summit of a steep clay bank,
from which men were loading a barge with bark. Great piles of blocks,
for staves, ornamented the crest of the rise--a considerable industry
for these parts, we were told. But the photographer, whom we were
chasing, had "taken" every Concordian who wished his services, and
moved on to Derby, another Kentucky village, which at last we found,
six miles father down the river.

The principal occupation of the people of Derby is getting out timber
from the hillside forests, six to ten miles in the interior. Oak, elm,
and sycamore railway-ties are the specialty, these being worth twenty
cents each when landed upon the wharf. A few months ago, Derby was
completely destroyed by fire, but, although the timber business is on
the wane here, much of the place was rebuilt on the old foundations;
hence the fresh, unpainted buildings, with battlement fronts, which,
with the prevalence of open-door saloons and a woodsy swagger on the
part of the inhabitants, give the place a breezy, frontier aspect now
seldom to be met with this side of the Rockies.

Here at last was the traveling photographer. His tent, flapping loudly
in the wind, occupied an empty lot in the heart of t