but the river was muddy enough and high enough for the Turner brothers to
float the raft slowly out from the mouth of Kingdom Come and down in front of
the house, where it was anchored to a huge sycamore in plain sight. At noon
the clouds gathered and old Joel gave up his trip to town.

"Hit'll begin in about an hour, boys," he said, and in an hour it did begin.
There was to be no doubt about this flood. At dusk, the river had risen two
feet and the raft was pulling at its cable like an awakening sea-monster.
Meanwhile, the mother had cooked a great pone of corn-bread, three feet in
diameter, and had ground coffee and got sides of bacon ready. All night it
poured and the dawn came clear, only to darken into gray again. But the
river--the river! The roar of it filled the woods. The frothing hem of it
swished through the tops of the trees and through the underbrush, high on the
mountain-side. Arched slightly in the middle, for the river was still rising,
it leaped and surged, tossing tawny mane and fleck and foam as it thundered
along--a mad, molten mass of yellow struck into gold by the light of the sun.
And there the raft, no longer the awkward monster it was the day before,
floated like a lily-pad, straining at the cable as lightly as a greyhound
leaping against its leash.

The neighbors were gathered to watch the departure--old Jerry Budd, blacksmith
and "yarb doctor," and his folks; the Cultons and Middletons, and even the
Dillons--little Tad and Whizzer--and all. And a bright picture of Arcadia the
simple folk made, the men in homespun and the women with their brilliant
shawls, as they stood on the bank laughing, calling to one another, and
jesting like children. All were aboard now and there was no kissing nor
shaking hands in the farewell. The good old mother stood on the bank, with
Melissa holding to her apron and looking at Chad gravely.

"Take good keer o' yo'self, Chad," she said kindly, and then she looked down