es, with a gurgling splash, fall into the
stream, which now is of the color of dull gold, from the clay held in
solution. Often, ruins of buildings may be seen upon the brink,
that have collapsed from this undercut of the fickle flood; and many
others, still inhabited, are in dangerous proximity to the edge, only
biding their time.

This morning, we passed the Indiana hamlets of Lewisport (731 miles)
and Grand View (736 miles), and by noon were at Rockport (741 miles),
a smart little city of three thousand souls, romantically perched upon
a great rock, which on the right bank rises abruptly from the wide
expanse of bottom. From the river, there is little to be seen of
Rockport save two wharves,--one above, the other below, the bold cliff
which springs sheer for a hundred feet above the stream,--two angling
roads leading up into the town, a house or two on the edge of the hill
and a huge water-tower crowning all.

A few miles below, we ran through a narrow channel, a few rods
wide, separating an elongated island from the Indiana shore. It much
resembles the small tributary streams, with a lush undergrowth of
weeds down to the water's edge, and arched with monster sycamores,
elms, maples and persimmons. Frequently had we seen skiffs upon the
shore, arranged with stern paddle-wheels, turned by levers operated by
men standing or sitting in the boat. But we had seen none in operation
until, shooting down this side channel, we met such a craft coming up,
manned by two fellows, who seemed to be having a treadmill task of it;
they assured us, however, that when a man was used to manipulating the
levers he found it easier than rowing, especially in ascending stream.

Yellowbank Island, our camp to-night, lies nearest the Indiana shore,
with Owensboro, Ky. (749 miles), just across the way. We have had
no more beautiful home on our long pilgrimage than this sandy islet,
heavily grown to stately willows. While the others were preparing
dinner, I pulled across the rapid current to an Indiana ferry-landing,
where there is a row of mean frame cabins, like the negro quarters of
a Southern farm, all elevated on posts some four feet above the level.
A half-dozen families live there, all of them small tenant farmers,
save the ferryman--a strapping, good-natured fellow, who appears to be
the nabob of the community.

Several hollow sycamore stumps house sows and their litters; but the
only cow in the neighborhood is owned by a young man