have made sufficient provision for every emergency. There a forlorn squatter is punting a rude raft with his few belongings slowly athwart the restless flood. Yonder a band of negroes, unaware of the break in time to reach the river, have congregated in an old gin house, and swarm upon its roof, yelling and gesticulating wildly in their terror, for aid, which they fear will never reach them; and, as the water rises higher, roofs, barns, hen-coops, and carcasses go floating past or lodge against their frail support, increasing their peril every moment. Some moan and cry; others pray vigorously, confessing their misdeeds with voluble freedom; occasionally there is some old crone who terrifies her auditors with the assertion that “de Lord is sendin’ another ’varsal flood on men for deir wickedness,” at which the wicked groan and cry, and the pious clap their hands and shout, trusting to shortly see the salvation of the Lord. In the distance appear a few figures perched in trees, seeming like enormous crows; over yonder, some unfortunate has shinned up a telegraph pole, which creaks and sways with the rush of the water, threatening constantly to return the trembling refugee to the flood beneath. The last unfortunates have straggled to the levee. The rest must wait for relief. Here and there a few cattle stand lowing in water half over their sides; a restless, snorting horse plunges impatiently about. A floating tree-trunk strikes them from their hillock, to swim aimlessly about till other drifting masses ride them down. A hen-coop floats past, on which a hungry chanticleer is perched, occasionally challenging the flood, and in the meantime, with sidelong glance eyeing the confusion and in undertones discussing the case with his half-starved, feathered harem. It is a motley throng that huddles along the levee. That narrow strip of earth, but eight feet wide at best, is [Illustration: CAMPS ON THE LEVEE.]