"Yes. A big tank that the city used to have for a reservoir had been bought by a sugar company and turned into a storage for molasses. Well, it burst one day, and a little matter of a million gallons of molasses went exploring through the streets. They say some poor mortals had actually to wade to dry land."
"Genevieve! what a story," cried Elsie.
"But it's true," declared Genevieve. "A whole half-mile square of the city was flooded, honestly. At least, the newspapers said it was."
"How the pickaninnies must have gloried in it," giggled Tilly, "—if they liked 'bread and perlashes' as well as I used to. Only think of having such a big saucerful to dip your bread into!"
"Tilly!" groaned Genevieve.
They were at Port Chalmette, now. The Crescent City lay behind them, and beyond lay the shining river-roadway, with its fertile, highly-cultivated plantations bordering each side, green and beautiful.
"How perfectly, perfectly lovely!" cried Elsie. "And I'm not sick one bit."
"Naturally not—yet," laughed Tilly. "But you just wait. We don't sail the Mississippi all the way to New York, you know."
"I wish we did," said Genevieve, her eyes dreamily following the shore line. "But we're only on it for a hundred miles."
"I don't," disagreed Elsie. "I want to see the Gulf Stream. They say it's a deep indigo blue, and that you can see it plainly. I think a blue river in a green sea must be lovely—like a blue ribbon trailing down a light green gown, you know."