Big hickory tree grove--Columbus Hickories--Largest cane in some bend down below Helena--Spanish Moss bend--famous river bend--Fisherman at Brickey's Mill told of hoop nets, trammels, seines (stillwater bayous), jump, hand, snag, reef, lines----Jugging for catfish down the crossings, half pound pork, or meat, for bait, also called "blocking" for catfish. "What will you do with all this?" Rasba asked. "Why, I'll----" Terabon hesitated, and then continued: "It's like building a house. I gather all this material: lumber, stone, logs, cement, shingles, lathes, quick-lime, bricks, and everything. I store it all up in this notebook; that's my lumber yard. Then when I dig the foundation, I'll come in here and I'll find the things I need to build my house, or mansion. Of course, to start with, I'll just build little shacks and cabins. See what I mean? I am going to write articles first and they're kind of like barns and shacks, and even mere fences. But by and by I'll write fiction stories, and they will be like the mansions, and the material will all fit in: all about a fisherman, all about a market hunter, all about a drifter, all about a river----" "All about a river woman?" Rasba asked, as he hesitated. "I wasn't thinking that." Terabon shook his head, his colour coming a little. "I had in mind, all about a River Prophet!" "Sho!" Rasba exclaimed. "What could you all find to write about a Riveh Prophet?" Terabon looked at the stern, kindly, friendly, picturesque mountaineer who had come so far to find one man, for that man's mother, and he rejoiced in his heart to think that the parson did not know, could never know, because of the honest simplicity of his heart, how extraordinarily interesting he was. So they drifted with the current, absorbed in their immediate present. It seemed as though they found their comprehension expanding and widening till it encompassed the answers to a thousand questions. Rasba, dazed by his own accretion of new interests, discovery of undreamed-of powers, seizure of opportunities never known before, could but gaze with awe and thankfulness at the evidences of his great good fortune, the blessings that were his in spite of his wondering why one of so little desert had received such bountiful favour. Terabon, remembering what he feared was irrevocably lost, knew that he had escaped disaster, and that the pile of notes which he had made only to be deprived of them were after all of less importance than that he should have suffered the deep emotion of seeing so much of his toil and time vanish. Here it was again--Rasba might well wonder at that gathering and hoarding of trifles. They were not the important things, those minute words and facts and points; no, indeed.