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% ■<5 eSBgSKSPgBKat 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.