Lazily, almost reluctantly as it seemed, the boat floated down the stream. At first, Lucien was inclined to use the broad oar, but it appeared that when he paddled on one side the clumsy boat tried to turn its head up stream on the other side, and so, after a while, he dropped the oar in the bottom of the boat.
The September sun was sultry that morning, but, obeying some impulse of the current, the boat drifted down the river in the shade of the water-oaks and willows that lined the eastern bank. On the western bank the Gaston plantation lay, and as the boat floated lazily along the little voyagers could hear the field-hands singing as they picked the opening cotton. The song was strangely melodious, though the words were ridiculous.
My dog’s a ’possum dog,
Here, Rattler! here!
He cross de creek upon a log,
Here, Rattler! here!
He run de ’possum up a tree,
Here, Rattler! here!
He good enough fer you an’ me,
Here, Rattler! here!