The line of boats were coming up north again. There had been much floating ice in the river this spring, which had delayed travelling. Flags were flying, so all was well. Down on the levee bells were ringing and horns blew out a welcome. Everything had a natural look again, only the new places were built higher up, and even some of these had been damaged by the crushing of ice cakes. The men collected who had this sort of interest at heart. Many others and the slaves were out on the King’s Highway and beyond, tilling and planting fields. Women sauntered down the Rue Royale and chatted. The old market was full of eagerness and activity, and the air had a fragrance of cooked viands to tempt the palates of the sailors. Women in coifs and little shoulder shawls that gave them a picturesque look, men in close caps or a kerchief tied over their heads, their blue blouses with red belts and wide collars exposing brawny or sinewy throats, tanned already by sun and wind. The leader, the most pretentious boat generally, carried some passengers; the others had loads of bales and bundles covered with coarse canvas or deers’ hide. They looked not unlike a funeral procession, the sails a dull gray, but the shouts and songs dispelled so sombre a thought. Some of the men remembered when the sad news of Pierre Laclede had reached them, when all had been silence. The first boat unloaded the few passengers, valuable papers, and the slaves began with the cargo. One tall, fine-aspected young fellow sprang ashore and was warmly welcomed by the Chouteaus and several of the more prominent men, and then Gaspard Denys seized his hand, but neither of them spoke except with the eyes. And now all was a brisk, seeming confusion. Rude barrows and a kind of hand-carts were loaded and run to the storehouses. Slaves, Indians and the lower class of French, many of them hunters as well, worked with a hearty will. Then there were groups of Indian traders who had been watching for days for the arrival of the boats, and were eager with their packs for trade. Others had already disposed of their pelts and taken notes with the signature of the Chouteaus, quite as good as gold or silver, and making trade easier, giving them more time to devote to their own selection. Squaws eager for blankets, calicoes, coarse, crash-like stuffs, beads and gewgaws, chaffering in their guttural tones, and shrill French voices raised to the point of anger, it would seem, from the eagerness, but good-humored for all that. Several men went into the counting house where the old sign still obtained, “Maxent Laclede & Company,” just as it still remained in New Orleans. It would look queer enough to-day, the small one-story log house with its rough inside wall built up to the ceiling with shelves, its great iron-bound boxes that served for seats as well as receptacles.