STORM SCENE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 133 
This I did do, but I heard nothing save the con- 
tinued clattering of the rain, and after a while I said so. 
For some time the Indian made no reply, although 
I was conscious that he was intensely interested in the 
prevailing dull sounds without. 
Suddenly he sprang upon his feet and groped his 
way to the door. The intrusive noise awoke the wood- 
chopper, who instantly seizing his rifle, sang out : 
‘ Halloo, what’s the matter, you red varmint, snort- 
ing in a man’s face like a scared buffalo bull, what’s 
the matter ?” 
“River too near,” was the slow reply of the Indian. 
,’ shouted the wood- 
chopper, “the banks of the Mississippi ar caving in,” 
“He’s right, so help me 

and then with a spring he leaped through the door and 
bid us follow. 
His advice was quickly obeyed. The Indian was the 
last to leave the cabin, and as he stepped from its thresh- 
old, the weighty unhewn logs that composed it, crum- 
bled, along with the rich soil, into the swift-running 
current of the mysterious river. 
This narrow escape made our fortunes somewhat 
bearable, and we waited with some little patience 
for day. 
At the proper time the sun rose gloriously bright, 
as if its smiling face had never been obscured by a 
cloud. 
The little birds of the woods sung merrily, there 
