The wind rises. The great crevasse, miles away, has widened till it is hundreds of yards in extent and many feet in depth, pouring upon the land millions of cubic feet of water every minute. With the swelling breeze, the flood goes surging inland in long, low, lazy waves. The planters who have not already taken flight, conclude it is useless to endeavor to remain. If the way is open, the cattle are driven inland to the hills. Some of the negroes straggle after their employers; others cling to their rude log cabins--all they have to lose--it may be that the flood will not be serious. So long as corn meal and bacon abound, they may enjoy an endless picnic. They can fling their lines from time to time into the stream, and perchance vary their repasts with fish-fry or turtle stew. Evening comes. The lazy waves now nearly reach the window-sills upon the lower floors. The cattle left behind low uneasily as they move about in water knee-deep. No one is near to feed them, and the udders of the cows are swollen with milk. Here and there a mule is seen, stamping impatiently and braying mournfully for lack of feed. The water displays a decided but wayward current, swirling now this way, now that. All the land is covered. Here and there numerous snakes have crawled into the bushes to escape the yellow flood. Out in a lowland tract a deserted shanty bobs idly along, now grounding a moment, now floating lazily around a great tree, finally becoming an item of the great mass of drift that has lodged at the edge of the forest, and swarms with small animals flying from the clutch of the crawling water. The game of the canebrakes and swamp regions has fled to the uplands, and from time to time some needy refugee family, heedless of game laws, adds venison to its scanty store. The night wears away. The negro cabins are deserted: most have floated away with the growing current. The simple folk have abandoned them. Some have made their way to the levees, hoping for a passing steamer. Others, dwelling above the crevasse, have little to fear from currents; and as the water rises around them, they take to hastily constructed rafts, transferring their few household effects thereto, and dwelling for days in a floating camp, sheltered from the rain by a wagon-sheet or old quilts stretched over a low ridge-pole. Mooring the rafts to trees, they lead, to others a romantic, to themselves a precarious existence. [Illustration: NOT SO ROMANTIC AS IT LOOKS.] A whole village deserted by its people wears a singularly melancholy aspect. Let the reader row with a press correspondent through the little town of Bayou Sara La, as it appeared during the recent overflow. The town lies on rolling ground, dotted here and there with low hills or drifts of sand and alluvial deposits, left thereby the floods of ages ago.