The people along shore waved to the passing boat—they always do it—and the more amiable of the passengers answered with flying handkerchiefs.
As she loomed radiant before them, an aged negro, sitting mending his net, remarked to his companion:
"What do she look like to you, Br'er Jones?"
"'What she look like to me?'" The man addressed took his pipe from his lips at the question. "What she look like—to me?" he repeated again. "Why, tell the trufe, I was jes' studyin' 'bout dat when you spoke. She 'minds me o' Heaven; dat what she signifies to my eyes—Heavenly mansions. What do she look like to you?"
"Well," the man shifted the quid in his mouth and lowered his shuttle as he said slowly, "well, to my observance, she don't answer for Heaven; I tell yer dat: not wid all dat black smoke risin' outen 'er 'bominable regions. She's mo' like de yether place to me. She may have Heavenly gyarments on, but she got a hell breath, sho'. An' listen at de band o' music playin' devil-dance time inside her! An' when she choose to let it out, she's got a-a-nawful snort—she sho' is!"
"Does you mean de cali-ope?"
"No; she ain't got no cali-ope. I means her clair whistle. Hit's got a jedgment-day sound in it to my ears."
"Dat music you heah', dat ain't no dance-music. She plays dat for de passengers to eat by, so dey tell me. But I reckon dey jes p'onounces supper dat-a-way, same as you'd ring a bell. An' when de people sets down to de table, dey mus' sho'ly have de manners to stop long enough to let 'em eat in peace. Yit an' still, whilst she looks like Heaven, I'd a heap ruther set heah an' see her go by 'n to put foot in her, 'ca'se I'd look for her to 'splode out de minute I landed in her an' to scatter my body in one direction an' my soul somewhars else. No; even ef she was Heaven, I'd ruther 'speriment heah a little longer, settin' on de sof' grass an' smellin' de yearnin' trees an' listenin' at de bumblebees a-bumblin', an' go home an' warm up my bacon an' greens for supper, an' maybe go out foragin' for my Sunday chicken to-night in de dark o' de moon. Hyah! My stomach hit rings de dinner-bell for me, jes as good as a brass ban'."
"Me, too!" chuckled the smoker. "I'll take my chances on dry lan', every time. I know I'll nuver lead a p'ocession but once-t, and dat'll be at my own fun'al, an' I don't inten' to resk my chances. But she is sho' one noble-lookin' boat."
By this time the great steamboat—the wonderful apparition so aptly typifying Heaven and hell—had passed.