The next day, Saturday, dawned clear and soft, a typical June morning. Ned turned out early, and had most of his chores done before breakfast, despite the fact that a double supply of wood was necessary for the kitchen stove, in order to last over Sunday.
When, at eight o’clock, Hal Lucas whistled for him, in front, he was ready to start. Stuffing his lunch, wrapped in two packages, into his side coat-pockets, he rushed through the house, kissing his mother on his way, and out of the gate.
“Now, be careful, Ned!” called his mother, after him.
“I will,” he shouted. “Good-bye.”
Mrs. Miller stood on the porch, watching the two boys as they merrily trudged off. Ned had many a time asserted, with truth, that although he might go upon the river every day for fifty years, each time his mother would be worried about him until he came home again. A mother’s heart is a very anxious heart.
Ned and Hal hastened down the street. Ahead of them they could see the river sparkling under the rays of the sun. Ordinarily it was not visible from this distance; but at present, far out of its bed, it was right on a level with the railroad skirting it.
“My! She’s on a tear, isn’t she!” said Hal, enthusiastically.
“If ever she gets over the tracks she’ll come whooping, my father says,” responded Ned. “She’s higher than the street, now!”
Without question the river was, to use Hal’s expression, “on a tear.” People along the Mississippi expect, as a matter of course, high water in the spring and early summer. Moderate high water is welcomed. It enables the logging companies to float their stranded logs; it washes clean the banks and the lowlands, carrying away tons of stuff that otherwise might breed illness; it is one of nature’s thorough purifiers.