"Mother said she was awake when the earthquake happened. She never slept well when father was off on his river trips, and she was lyin' in bed wonderin' if he was safe, when the house begun to shake, and the dishes and pans rattled on the shelves, and there was father and Uncle Tandy travelin' back wards twelve miles; and when the earthquake was over and the river got to flowin' south again, they floated down past Cairo and saw the big lake, pretty near twenty-five miles long and four miles wide, right where there'd been nothin' but woods and dry land, and the tops o' some o' the biggest trees was stickin' up above the water, and folks from far and from near was comin' to see what the earthquake had done. "Father and Uncle Tandy never got through talkin' about the earthquake that Sunday mornin', and Parson Page never got tired listenin', and every time he'd come to see father, he'd manage to bring the talk around to fishin', and that'd start father to tellin' about the time the lake was made; and when father'd git through, Parson Page he'd draw a long breath and say: 'Well, that's wonderful! wonderful! It was a great privilege to be present at an act of creation, as it were, and something to be thankful for all your days.'" Aunt Jane's voice ceased suddenly, and a bewildered look came into her clear old eyes, the look of one who has lost connection with the present by lingering overtime in the past, "What was I talkin' about a while ago, child?" she asked helplessly. "Wasn't it circuses?" I suggested. The cloud of perplexity rolled away from Aunt Jane's face, "Why, of course it was," she ejaculated, with an accent of self-reproof for her forgetfulness. "Didn't I start out to tell you about Parson Page goin' to the circus, and here I am tellin' about the earthquake. I'm jest like an old blind horse; can't keep in the straight road to save my life. Some folks might say my mind was failin', but if you ever git to be as old as I am, child, you'll know jest how it is. A young person hasn't got much to remember, and he can start out and tell a straight tale without any trouble. But an old woman like me--why, every name I hear starts up some ricollection or other, and that keeps me goin' first to one side o' the road and then to the other." And having explained away her lapse of memory, Aunt Jane went cheerfully on.