"'As I look r'arward to them days of my infancy, I brings to mind a
staggerin' blow that neighborhood receives. A stern-wheeler sinks
about two hundred yards off our landin' with one thousand bar'ls of
whiskey on board. When the news of that whiskey comes flyin' inland,
it ain't a case of individyooals nor neighborhoods, but whole
counties comes stampedin' to the rescoo. It's no use; the boat bogs
right down in the sand; in less than an hour her smoke stack is
onder water. All we ever gets from the wrack is the bell, the same
now adornin' a Presbyter'an church an' summonin' folks to them
services. I tells you, gents, the thoughts of that Willow Run, an'
we not able to save so much as a quart of it, puts a crimp in that
commoonity they ain't yet outlived. It 'most drives 'em crazy; they
walks them banks for months a-wringin' their hands an' wishin' the
impossible.'

"'Is any one drowned?' asks Faro Nell, who comes in, a moment
before, an' as usual plants herse'f clost to Cherokee Hall. 'Is thar
any women or children aboard?'

"'Nell,' says the Colonel, 'I apol'gizes for my ignorance, but I'm
bound to confess I don't know. Thar's no one knows. The awful fact
of them one thousand bar'ls of Willow Run perishin' before our very
eyes, swallows up all else, an' minor details gets lost in the
shuffle an' stays lost for all time. It's a turrible jolt to the
general sensibilities, an' any gent who'll go back thar yet an' look
hard in the faces of them people, can see traces of that c'lamity.

"'As a child,' resoomes the Colonel, 'I'm romantic a whole lot. I'm
carried away by music. My fav'rite airs is "Smith's March," an'