That people who had suffered as these people had could still be brave-hearted enough to dwell upon the humorous side of their tragedy, shows that it is hard to drown out American “grit,” and the American sense of humor. But the tragic side was ever present and needed no emphasis. One woman, of whom Mr. Davis spoke, a widow with three small children, had lost her entire crop. At the time of the flood she was desperately ill, and, when rescued in a boat with the children, it was feared that she would die as a result of the exposure. She was now, however, recovering, but some provision would have to be made for her until another crop could be raised. Throughout all this section there had been comparatively little loss of household goods and effects, because most of the people were warned in time to enable them to remove their belongings to a place of safety. We drove through acre after acre of rotten corn, and of cotton fit only to be plowed under to fertilize the ground for next year’s crop. Fences had been ruined and bridges swept away, and several times it was necessary to make a wide detour, in order to find a safe crossing place. One man with whom we talked, who, with his family, had just moved back into their still damp house, said that he had nothing left, but a little corn, a few chufas and a patch of cane. Every farm we visited in that section was practically in the same condition. The next day, Sunday, we started again at 10 A. M. over a road that led down the sandy ridge that, for the most part, had not been covered by the waters, though even here the lower points had been submerged. Then turning eastward through the section marked on the map as the Low Flat Lands, we left the beaten track and, for a long time, traveled through alternating areas of partially submerged woodland, and sodden savannahs—the South Carolinian term for meadow land. It was not easy to follow the trail across the savannahs, and the drive through the woods was even more difficult. As we lurched along through the water we never knew at what moment the buggy might strike some submerged log or stump. We took dinner at the home of Mr. Fontaine Davis, a planter and merchant at the lower end of Britton’s Neck Township, who kindly volunteered to take me on down into Woodberry Township, as far as we could go, while Mr. S. U. Davis rested his horse ready for the return journey.