The River's Children Part 14

"Well, Harold he was always sentimental, if you will. I suppose dat broken bridge is, as he says--it is history, and he needs to keep it before him, not to be too rash. Maybe so. Who can tell? Two boys in de war, it was enough--if he had stopped to t'ink."

"Yas--_mais_ de barge, de Cleopatra; dey say she is be'-u-tiful!"

"Cleopatra! For w'at he di'n' name her somet'ing sensible?"

"Dat is not only sensible--it is diplomatic. You know, w'en a man has only a daughter and a step-wife--_w'at_ is de matter wid me to-night?

You understand me. I say, in--well, in some cases, to _dis_criminate, it is enough to drive a man to--"

"Oh, don't say dat, Felix."

"Let me _finish_, will you? I say it is one of dose _in_delicate situations dat drive a man to _dodge_! An' w'en he can dodge into history and romance at once, so much de better! An' _Cleopatra_, it sound well for a barge. An' so, really, _if_ de beautiful daughter _should_ be de queen an' dey could arrange one house-party--"

"Suppose, Felix, ol' man, you would bring out yo' magnolia-tree once more, you don't t'ink de li'l' bird would come again an' stan' on one limb an' may_be_--"

"Ah, no. I am sure not. If dey had a grain of salt in dat story, I would try. I would put it on his tail. _Mais_, how can you catch a bird widout salt?"

So idly, playfully, the talk rippled on, ever insensibly flavored with rich romance of life, even as the fitful breeze skirting the sh.o.r.es held, in shy suspension, an occasional hint of orange-blossoms or of the Cuban fruits which, heaping the luggers in the slanting sun, laid their gay bouquets of color against the river's breast.

It is many years since the maid Agnes Le Duc, on her way to coronation at the carnival, stood while the sun went down in all her vestal beauty on deck of the _Laurel Hill_, and smiled through tears of tenderness at life as half revealed to her.

Many things are changed since then, and yet the great river flows on, all unheeding.

Laden to their guards, so that their weighty cargoes of cotton and sugar, traveling to mill and to market, are wet with the spray of playful condescension, panting ships of commerce, some flying foreign colors, still salute each other in pa.s.sing, with ever a word of solicitude as to milady's health.

Old Lady Mississippi, is she high or low in spirits? And will her hand of benediction turn to smite and to despoil?

But, whether she be obdurate or kindly, hysterical or melancholy, or so serene as to invite the heavens, life and love and song are hers.

Uniting while she seems to divide, bringing together whom she appears to separate, a raft of logs contributed by her grace affording free pa.s.sage the length of her realm to whoever will take it, paying no toll, she invites Romance to set sail under the stars in primal simplicity, eschewing the "bridal chambers" of white and gold which lie in the hearts of all the busy steamers, no matter how otherwise prosaic their personalities.

And still, afloat and alongsh.o.r.e, astride a mola.s.ses-barrel or throwing dice between the cotton-bales, taking no thought of the morrow, the negro sings:

"Cometh our fount of every blessing!"