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Updated: June 27, 2025
The philosophy of that was, for this occasion, that if Old Mississip' was falling, Elijah Rasba might never get ashore, not in all the rest of his born days, unless he stirred his boots. So catching up his sweep handles he began to push a long stroke toward the west bank, and his boat began to move on the river surface.
"Here 'tis, I reckon!" cried Mississip, springing across a small cleft in the rocks, and running toward a dark object lying on the sheltered side of a small cliff. "Good God!" he continued, as he stooped down; "it's Codago! An' he's froze stiff." "Serve him right, cuss him," growled Lynn Taps. "I almost wish he had a soul, so he could catch it good an' hot, now he's gone!"
Of Dixie, of the Potomac, of old Kentucky, of the "Mississip'," of the land of Tennessee a score of songs of exile would flow unconscious from her lips, until at last, bethinking to herself, she would fall to weeping, covering her face with her apron and refusing to be comforted by any hand but that of Mary Ellen, the "young Miss Beecham," whose fortunes she had followed to the end of the world.
"Yer a hell sight better lookin' then I thought yer wus, an' a damn sight younger. Whar wus it yer cum frum?" "Frum Saint Louee, on the boat, if thet's what yer drivin' at." "Tain't what I'm drivin' at. Whar else did yer cum frum afore then? Yer ain't got no bum's face." "Oh, I see; well, I can't help that, kin I? I wus raised down in Mississip', an' run away when I wus fourteen.
"Hit were Jest Prebol," Mrs. Caope said. "You was tellin' of him, Parson." "Hit were Prebol," Rasba nodded, "an' he shore needed shooting!" "Yas, suh. That kind has to be shot some to make 'em behave theirselves," Mrs Caope exclaimed, sharply. "If it wa'n't fer ladies shootin' men onct in awhile, down Old Mississip', why, ladies couldn't git to live here a-tall!"
Don't you see he's growin better all de time? Dar; dat'll do," replied Quin, as he carried the bucket to the forecastle. "Wha wha what's the matter?" demanded Cyd. "Do you feel better, Cyd?" asked Dan, tenderly, as he permitted the patient to roll over into the standing room. "Yes, sar! 'I's born way down 'pon de Mississip; I's crossed de riber on a cotton-wood chip,"
Her pistol was sign of her bravado, and her shots were the indication of her desperation. The memory of the wan face of Prebol brought down by her bullet was now an accusation, not a pride. Old Mississip' had received her gently in her most furious mood, but now that immense, active calm of vast power was working on the untamed soul which she owned.
"I 'low we uns can leave hit to Old Mississip', these yeah things that trouble us: I, my triflin' doubts, and you children yo' own don't-know-yets." What made him say that, if he wasn't a River Prophet? Who told him, what voice informed him, at that moment? Who can say?
"Make good money writing for the newspapers?" "Enough to live on," Terabon replied, "and, of course, it's living, coming down Old Mississip'!" "You like it travelling in that skiff? Where do you sleep?" "I stretch that canvas between the gunwales in those staples; I put those hoops up, and draw a canvas over the whole length of the boat. I can sleep like a baby in its cradle."
Rapidly the miners straggled up the trail, and halted opposite Mississip. "Well, I'll be durned!" shouted the latter; "he ain't got no shirt on, an' there's an ugly cut in his arm. It beats anything I ever seed!" One by one the miners leaped the cleft, and crowded about Mississip and stared.
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