Abe pulled with might and main on the starboard oar, and Allen swung the steering-sweep to bring them over toward the Kentucky shore. “We might’s well stay this side whar it ain’t so yaller, long as we kin,” said the big bow-oarsman. “I feel sort o’ more at home in water that might ha’ come down from Little Pigeon.” They tied up to the Kentucky bank while it was still light enough to find a good mooring-place. Not much singing or hilarity aboard that night. Something of the vast, brooding mystery of the river had got into them. Tad didn’t feel afraid, or even lonesome, exactly. He just wasn’t in a mood for talking. The immense distances, the wildness of the country, the hurrying, watery sounds of the mile-wide flood--perhaps it was none of these, or all of them combined, that weighed down their spirits. “Spooky, ain’t it?” said Allen, shaking himself uneasily, and he went to his blankets without taking out the banjo. Tad followed soon and left Abe sitting hunched in dark silhouette against the stars, his big hands gripped around his knees and his eyes on the shadowy line of willows and cottonwoods across the river. He was used to spells of sadness. This one seemed no worse than usual. Morning made a difference. The sun shone on budding leaves of tender green and sparkled on the dimpling surface of the water. A perfect riot of bird-song filled the air. In the big trees that overhung the mooring-place there must have been hundreds of warblers, finches and song-sparrows, and several times Tad caught the red flash of a cardinal among the branches. Allen sang and Tad whistled intermittently while they cooked and ate breakfast, and even Abe hummed something that might have been “Turkey in the Straw” and danced a home-made double shuffle on the fore deck, as he cast off. “Make the most of it, boys,” he laughed. “This is all the Spring we’re a-goin’ to see. By day after tomorrer we’ll ketch up with Summer, at this rate.” The sun was warm enough that day to give truth to the tall boy’s words. They passed islands where the dogwood, at the height of its bloom, made a white canopy almost to the water’s edge. And in fields along the shore there were bare-footed children running about in calico frocks. The river did not seem lonesome in daylight. Above and below them they could see busy specks that were keel-boats and barges. They overtook one of these toward noon--a shabby old trading-scow. On its after part was built a little house, or “caboose,” from which a length of rusty stove-pipe projected. And a dingy bit of what had once been bright cotton print waved in tatters at the top of a pole. Despite the forlorn appearance of the craft, cheerful sounds came from it, as the Indiana flatboat drew alongside.