we were told, before resuming operations in
the planting of a dike. I took a snap-shot at the fleet, and heard
one man shout to another, "Bill, did yer notice they've a photograph
gallery aboard?" They appear to be a jolly lot, these dredgers, and
inclined to take life easily, in accordance with the traditions of
government employ.

We frequently see skiffs hauled upon the beach, or moored between two
protecting posts, to prevent their being swamped by steamer wakes. The
names they bear interest us, as betokening, perhaps, the proclivities
of their owners. "Little Joe," "Little Jim," "Little Maggie," and
like diminutives, are common here, as upon the towing-tugs and steam
ferries of broader waters--and now and then we have, by contrast,
"Xerxes," "Achilles," "Hercules." Sometimes the skiff is named after
its owner's wife or sweetheart, as "Maggie G.," "Polly H.," or from
the rustic goddesses, "Pomona," "Flora," "Ceres;" on the Kentucky
shore, we have noted "Stonewall Jackson," and "Robert E. Lee," and one
Ohio boat was labeled "Little Phil." Literature we found represented
to-day, by "Octave Thanet"--the only case on record, for the
Ohio-River "cracker" is not greatly given to books. Slang claims for
its own, many of these knockabout craft--"U. Bet," "Git Thair," "Go
it, Eli," "Whoa, Emma!" and nondescripts, like "Two Doves," "Poker
Chip," and "Game Chicken," are not infrequent.

In these stately solitudes, towns are far between. Enterprise, Ind.
(755 miles), is an unpainted village with a dismal view--back of and
around it, wide bottom lands, with hills in the far distance; up and
down the river, precipitous banks of clay, with willow fringes on that
portion of the shore which is not being cut by the impinging current.
Scuffletown, Ky. (767 miles), is uninviting. Newburgh, on the edge of
a bluff, across the river in Indiana, is a ragged little place that
has seen better days; but the backward view of Newburgh, from below
Three-Mile Island, made a pretty picture, the whites and reds of the
town standing out in sharp relief against the dark background of the
hill.

Green River (775 miles), a gentle, rustic stream, enters through
the wide bottoms of Kentucky. We had difficulty in finding it in the
wilderness of willows--might not have succeeded, indeed, had not the
red smokestack of a small steamer suddenly appeared above the
bushes. Soon, the puffing craft debouched upon the Ohio, and, quickly
overtaking us, passed d