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Jitlanta, Ga., Week Ending June 3, f9Q5.
50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY 5c.
VOLUME XLIII—NUMBER FOURTEEN
^ When
“F ather
The Sunny South published a story on
this subject two years ago. It is, how
ever, of such perennial interest, and so
vital to the 3outh, that the following fresh
article is deemed worthy of use. The
woes of the valley inhabitant might seem
exaggerated, did not the accompanying
scenes bear documentary evidence to their
reality.
Stirs In ^ ^
Relentless Wrath Against
His Valley Children
By M. B. KNOWLTON.
Wrttrn fcr .?unny South
ROM the day that red man
launched his first frail craft
upon Its crested waves to
the present time, -the Mis
sissippi river, our country's
groat artery of commerce,
has been an unruly stream.
Since the time when the
memory of man runneth
not to the contrary, this
majestic river has occasion
ally overflowed its banks
and made desolate the
beautiful valley to which
It has driven its name—a valley which
rivals in fertility the famous valley of
the Nile. None save the dwellers in this
beautiful valley who have seen the muddy
waters of the Mississippi rush with tu
multuous current through the curious
embankments, called levees, which wind
sjerpenitlike along efthler hank of the
lordly stream, _ can realize Its might and
majesty.
The levee, which is the salvation of the
Mississippi valley, is a drain of earthen
mounds 1,500 miles in aggregate length,
erected at a stupendous cost.
When it becomes evident that a great
flood in the Mississippi is inevitable, prep,
gracious to uonib.'ut it are immediately
begun. The levee is divided into sections
by mile stakes, weak places are repaired,
and watchmen are placed at intervals
along the line with as many assistants
as they require. Sacks, lumber and other
materials essential to a high waiter fight
are distributed where they are likely to
\-ded
VALIANT ARMY.
. -. i- resisted an Invnrtina
more persistently than the people of the
low lands fight to keep back the advanc
ing floods of the Mississippi. When the
water rises up near the top of the levee,
and it is plainly evident that it will
continue to rise until it overtops the em
bankment. the work of making the levee
higher is begun. Sacks of earth are
brought from the landward side of the
embankment and built into tiers, forming
a breastwork against the advancing flood.
When it becomes doubtful whether or
not the levee can resist the immense
pressure against it, all farm work is sus
pended and every available man is pressed
into service. No man considers himself
too rich to handle a spade at such times.
On one side of the thin line of heaped dirt
are fertile fields and grazing stock, on
the other a hurling, gnawing torrent.
The triumphant water creeps over the
crest of the inefficient breastwork at
last. A stream trickles down the side of
the embankment and broadens and deep
ens until It roars through a huge gap
hundreds of feet long, pouring the wrath
of the floods upon the fertile fields below;
or sometimes it is a part of the great dike
considered perfectly safe that gives way
and lets in the destructive flood.
As serious as a high water fight la,
tit is nnt without its ludicrous occurrences
Upon a certain occasion, an experienced
civil engineer was hurrying to a point
where the levee was considered in a pre
carious condition. Great springs of mud
dy water were bubbling up at its base,
and its boggy sides could not bear the
weight of a man. As he was nearing the
dangerous poinit, the engineer met an an
cient nelgro hurrying in the opposite di
rection.
9-.9~9—9‘-9-o--9
"How is the levee now, old man?” ne
anxiously inquired.
"Hit's at de p'int o’ death, sah!” the
old darky shouted, as ha broke into a
weak-kneed run.
After a crevasse occurs in the levee,
there is no time for the gathering to
gether of goods and chattels. Within
twenty-four hours the whole scene, as
far as eye can see, is a watery waste,
floating her? and there are houses whose
foundations were insufficient to withstand
the rush of water against them. Many
people make a hasty departure, and re :
main away until the water recedes.
The great laboring class of the Mis
sissippi valley is, as every one knows,
composed of negroes. With character
istic African lightness of heart. t'ne-ne
gro does not lake an overflow seriously,
lie. has worked side by side with his
Anglo-Saxon brother; he has fought des
perately to save the white man's coun
try, and when the fight is lost, he fakes
the result, no matter how disastrous it
may be, philosophically.
The majority of planters in the area
subject to overflow are well prepared to
care for their stock. Tet there are some
optimistic ones who think that each
flood is the last and make no prepara
tions for its return. It is necessary p 1
them to rose the ievee as a place of
refuge for their stock, where they are
cared for under many difficulties.
RECEDES SLOWLY.
When it has reached its height, the
devastating flood begins slowly to re
cede, leaving slimy marks high on trees
and houses. Its fall is as slow as Its
rise is rapid. Slowly the land appears,
and finally the raters drain into their
channel.
An overflow has its picturesque and
comical as well as its dangerous and
pathetic sides. StKh times nre exei!,up
times, and nothing so satisfies the sou!
of the average -negro as excitement. In
curious crafts of their own design, they
travel from cabin to cabin, and from
place to place. But when the breaking
waves dash too high against his cabin,
the negro takes his dogs and his children
and establishes, among the horses and
cattle, a. temporary home on the Itvee.
He is In no wise distressed, for the
Ethiopian of the .land where cotton is
king bel(*ngs to n race which takes no
An Overflow Scene in the Missisippi Valley,
thought of the morrow.*. He knows that
when the Lord forsakes him the govern-
t wil! provide. There is uo work to
be done; each week the government fur
nishes them a generous supply of rations,
and why, then, the negroes argue, should
they not enjoy themselves?
No matter what they have to leave
behind when it becomes necessary to
abandon their cabins, the banjo is ntver
forgotten.
It is a comical sight to see a banjo
player seated on the levee, surrounded
by a singing, laughing audience of half
a hundred, while on either side restless
cattle and horses are tied, pawing ,o be
free. Whether or not the music of the
banjo had power to qu'.’t these animals
as the music of Ham's banjo had to
quiet the restless animals on the a*-k
w-as not observed.
Notwithstanding its occasional over
flow, the Mississippi valley Is a land
where great fortunes have been, and are
being, amassed. It Is a land of plenty.
And the levees, which b ave been erected
to protect it from the floods of an un
ruly river, are a monument to the strug
gles of a courageous and progressive
people.
A Levee Crevasse.
A Deserted Cabin.
A Flood Sufferer.
A Watery Waste.
Returning to His Cabin.
9.-9-9 — 9—9’-9 — 9-9~9m-9 — 9--9 — 9 — 9~9 — 9 — 9—9~9 — m*»-.-9~ 9-*9—9-~9—9—9:-9 — 9-—9-~9--9—«-*9~9-~9-*-9-~9—9--9~*-9-»-9--9 — 9—9—9—9-- 9 — 9—9’-9-‘-9-*-9 — 9 ■•■9-*-9-r-9-.-9—9-’-9-*- 9--9-*-9»-9--9-~ 9 — t—9»-9-»9 — 9 — 9--9 9’-9 9'-9-9 — 9 — i
Borrowed Plximes ^ A Lively Tabloid Novel
#«•••* c •*«►•• © *•* o ■••• • ••• • ••• •
By LESLIE THOMAS.
N the corner of an other
wise empty corridor car
riage sat the Honorable
Peter Logra.m, regarding
with complacent eye f he
reflection in the small
hand-glass which he held
before his face; and al
though his sole remaining
hirsute adornment clus
tered more particularly to
tile back and sides of his
head, he smoothed down
an imaginary parting care
fully, giving a grunt or two expressive
of satisfaction as he did so.
Tiu- platform without was, apparently,
deserted, and, having halted for a brief
interval at ;■ little-frequented station, the
train was now slowly gathering speed;
hence Mr. bogram's disregard of con
ventionalities in the matter of attention
to liis toilet.
Suddenly, however, the sound of rapid
steps ami the panting of a runner caught
his ear through the open window. Evi
dently a belated passenger was making
one iinal sprint in the effort to board
the moving train. Warning shouts came
from a zealous official anxious for the
safety of the new arrival; then an ad
jacent carriage door slammed violently.
“Idiot!" muttered Mr. Logram, testily.
"Deserved to he killed! Why couldn't
he have allowed himself more time?"
He picked up a wig of thick, black
hair from a box on the seat beside him.
"Might as well try this on, too,” he
said to himself, ruminative'.y, setting
it upon his head.
He adjusted its position with the nicest
precision, so that the neat parting rested
exactly in the center. "All this makes
one feel quite a child again,” he thought,
smiling. “Much better than having a
chap from Clarkson's down, by Jove!
Good thing that fellow—whoever he was—
didn't get in here just now-, though.
He’d have disturbed me at a most in
opportune moment, to put it mildly."
He brought the glass nearer. "H'ml
. . . That seems to fit very well—looks
almost natural, in fact. In the limelight
it won't be noticeable. . . ."
"Y's; very useful things, aren't they''"
said a quiet voice at tlie door. "Come
in handy—now- and again.”
The Honorable Peter turned abruptly
on the intruder, an Individual attired
in a top-hat and frock-coat, with obvious
—but unavailing—pretensions to smart
ness. His clothing was somewhat disar
ranged. his tie awry. His face was red,
as if from recent exertion; indeed, ha
still mopped it at intervals with a silk
handkerchief of various shades of blue.
"I beg your pardon,” said the Hon
orable Peter, icily, when he could speak.
‘‘Don't mention It!” beseeehed the :c»-
comer, aiiTiy, with a wave of the hand.
'Don't mention it at all! I was only-
saying what useful things those— Pv
gad!” he cried, in amazement; “why, if
it isn’t 'Daddy!' Good oid ‘Daddy!’ *'
And lie a'tfvanced with outstretched arm.
Mr. Logram was somewhat taken abac*
ai first. Then his choler rose. “What
the—,” he spluttered. "How dare—”
"Hardly knew you at first—with all
that black hair,” said the top-hatted
gentleman, calmly. "It’s a darn
wig, that. Shouldn't wonder if it took
all the 'tecs' in, cither. Why, you’re
got up fit to kill—absolutely regardless,”
he added, admiringly, weighing up the
Honorable Peter's outfit with a prac
ticed glance. ” ‘Daddy,’ you're a mar
vel—a perfect marvel!”
"How dare you, sir!" Mr. Logram
brought it out at last. “I've never seen
you before in my life, sir. and—and don’t
want to again! 'Daddy,' indeed! Of
all the pieces of impertinence—!” he
gasped.
The other man broke into a roar of
laughter. "Good—deuced good!" he chuck
led, amusedly; "but it won't wasli witli me,
you know." He prodded Mr. Logram's
ribs playfully. "Quite right." he went orij
sobering down somewhat, "quite right t'
keep up the game before a stranger. But
I’m all righT, old chap—though you’ve
never met me, as you say.” He went
into fresh paroxysms. "I'm one o' the
boys. I am," he explained, confidentially.
"Name o’ Carshott—Jimmy Carshott.
They’ve often told me about you down at
the Club. Besides”—he looked at Mr.
Logram half reprovingly—“you're a pub
lic character, you are, you know. They’ve
got a copy of your ’physog.’ at every
big police station In England. I should
think!"
"Do you mean to imply—T” The Hon
orable 'Peter was comparatively calm
now.
“Course they have! You know that as
well as J do,” said Mr. Carshott. sharp
ly. "I quite hold with being properly
eau'Jous—arid all that. Don’t blame you
at all.” he added, indulgently. "Needn't
try to 'come' it over me, though, ’cause
it won’t wash.”
“But, look here,” Mr. Logram expostu
lated. "I’m not the man—‘the—er—friend
of yours that you suppose.”
“Oh, cheese it!” said Jimmy Carshott,
rudely. "Be sensible, do! To come to
business now. Have you got such a
■tiling as another o' them wigs and a
change o’ duds for me in one of those
baigs o’ yours? If so, I 'll hire ’em
from you for the day.”
"I have not!” said the Honorable Peter,
firmly. "Your conduct, sir—”
"Tell you why,” Mr. Carshott contin
ued, unmoved. “I had two of ’em from
Scotland Yard—Jenkins and a pal of his
—in plain clothes, you know—on my track
at tli“ last station, and only managed to
catch this 'train and get away from 'em
by tile skin of my teeth. They're svirc
to wire on. too. you know, according
to their usual unpleasant custom; and
tilings'll look rather awkward for me at
the next stop.”
"That’s not for half an hour,” Mr. Lo
gram reminded him.
“Oh. good egg!” commented his com
panion. cheerfully. “May be able to do
a bit of a change in that time. Lucky
thing, rather, me hanging on to this
train. Bit of a dash it was. 1 tell you.
Then, you S|ee”—reminiscently—"I was
just walking along to find a nice, com
fortable carriage, and who should I catch
sight of but you, ‘Daddy!’ ‘Here’s a
bit of luck for you, Jimmy, iny boy,’ I
thought. ‘Here’s a positive genius; here’s
one. of the shining lights, so to speak, of
the profession to ask advice of!’ Now,
surely you can give me a tip or two!
You’re an older hand at the game than
what I am "
The Honorable Peter shook his head
helplessly. lie was past speech.
“Oh, well." said the top-hatte’d gen
tleman, sharply, "if you’ve nothing to
suggest—" He shrutgged his shoulders,
"By the way,” he added, suddenly, "for
got to mention it before—chaps at the
Ciuh were talking about it the other
night. Hard luck on you, I call it!” re
flectively. “I expect you’ve heard,
though. What I mean to .say is—your
wife’s on your track again. Thought I'd
just mention it.” ,
"My what?" a.sked Mr. Logram, sharp
ly.
“Ynur wife," repeated his companion,
firmly. “Your old woman. You know—
your first—the Newcastle one.”
"My first?” ttie Honorable Peter gasped.
"How many have I, then?”
"Haven’t you ever counted?” asked Mr.
Carshott, with a grin. “You ought to
know better than me. J esides, I never
was good at figures.” he added, humor
ously.
“But you’re in error, my good sir. I
am unmarried,” said Mr. Logram, fierce
ly.
Jimmy Carshott whistled expressively,
then lifted a reproving finger.
“Oh. you naughty old man!” he re
marked, playfully. “Mean to say that
last one at Sheffield—O-oh!” His face as
sumed a shocked expression. “Well, she’s
after you. anyway. Better be careful.”
He glanced musingly at the silent Mr.
Logram. ’’Don’t take it hard, old chap,”
he said, consolingly. 'You’ll get away—
same as you’ve often done before.”
The Honorable Peter made a remark
of no Importance.
"Oh, fie!” said Mr. Carshott. jovially.
“By Jove, ‘Daddy,’ you do look young in
that wig! You’ve no idea.”
“Once and for all.” said Mr. Logram,
menacingly, "my name is not ‘Daddy!*
Kindly—"
“Oh, my error!” airily. "Thought I
could call you that—between ourselves, I
mean. No offense meant. None taken, I
hope?”
The Honorable Peter, in desperation,
rose hastily and began to collect his lug
gage. His one idea was to get rid of
this embarrassing companion somehow,
and that as quickly and as conveniently
as possible.
”1 think it would be better,” he said,
frigidly, "if I were to change Into an
other compartment. Mr.—er—Carshotit. I
wish you goodday.”
"Oh! Don't want to get mixed up with
rno when the ’tect’ look in. eh? I quite
understand. Or got a little game on your
self, p'r'aps? Righito! I know my place.
I shan’t interfere with you. Byby!”
Mr. l»gram, scorning reply, picked up
his bags and moved off toward the ad-
CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE.