nobserved and unthought of by pigs, chickens
and children, which in hopeless promiscuity swarm the interstate
premises.

For many days to come we are to have Ohio on the right bank and West
Virginia on the left. There is no perceptible change, of course, in
the contour of the rugged hills which hem us in; yet somehow it stirs
the blood to reflect that quite within the recollection of all of
us in Pilgrim's crew, save the Boy, that left bank was the house of
bondage, and that right the land of freedom, and this river of ours
the highway between.

East Liverpool (44 miles) and Wellsville (48 miles) are long stretches
of pottery and tile-making works, both of them on the Ohio shore.
There is nothing there to lure us, however, and we determined to camp
on the banks of Yellow Creek (51 miles), a peaceful little Ohio stream
some two rods in width, its mouth crossed by two great iron spans, for
railway and highway. But although Yellow Creek winds most gracefully
and is altogether a charming bit of rustic water, deep-set amid
picturesque slopes of field and wood, we fail to find upon its banks
an appropriate camping-place. Upon one side a country road closely
skirts the shore, and on the other a railway, while for the mile or
more we pushed along small farmsteads almost abutted. Hence we retrace
our path to the great river, and, dropping down-stream for two miles,
find what we seek upon the lower end of the chief of Kneistly's
Cluster--two islands on the West Virginia side of the channel.

It is storied ground, this neighborhood of ours. Over there at the
mouth of Yellow Creek was, a hundred and twenty years ago, the camp of
Logan, the Mingo chief; opposite, on the West Virginia shore, Baker's
Bottom, where occurred the treacherous massacre of Logan's family. The
tragedy is interwoven with the history of the trans-Alleghany border;
and schoolboys have in many lands and tongues recited the pathetic
defense of the poor Mingo, who, more sinned against than sinning, was
crushed in the inevitable struggle between savagery and civilization.
"Who is there to mourn for Logan?"

We are high and dry on our willowed island. Above, just out of sight,
are moored a brace of steam pile-drivers engaged in strengthening
the dam which unites us with Baker's Bottom. To the left lies a broad
stretch of gravel strand, beyond which is the narrow water fed by the
overflow of the dam; to the right, the broad steamboat channel rolls
between us and