A Thousand-Mile Walk 
deep, and that if I were carried away, I was a 
good swimmer and would soon dry in the sun- 
shine. But the cautious old soul replied that no 
one ever waded that river and set off for a horse, 
saying that it was no trouble at all. 
In a few minutes the ferry horse came gin- 
gerly down the bank through vines and weeds. 
His long stilt legs proved him a natural wader. 
He was white and the little sable negro boy that 
rode him looked like a bug on his back. After 
many a tottering halt the outward voyage was 
safely made, and I mounted behind little Nig. 
He was a queer specimen, puffy and jet as an 
India rubber doll and his hair was matted in sec- 
tions like the wool of a merino sheep. The old 
horse, overladen with his black and white bur- 
den, rocked and stumbled on his stilt legs with 
fair promises of a fall. But all ducking signs 
failed and we arrived in safety among the weeds 
and vines of the rugged bank. A salt bath 
would have done us no harm. I could swim and 
little Afric looked as if he might float like a 
bladder. 
[4] 
