For some miles above the battle-ground, the river is a succession of shallows, broken every mile or two by lovely patches of smooth, still water, generally bedecked with a green islet or two, around which the trout love to play. The banks are generally large, irregular hills, that look as if they were struggling to pitch themselves, with their huge pines, into the stream; but, once in a while, you find a level strip of alluvial in cultivation, or a beautiful and fertile declivity, shaded by magnificent poplars, beech-trees, and walnut. Now and then you may see the cabin of a squatter, stuck to the side of a hill, like a fungus against a wall; but, generally, the Tallapoosa retains the wild, pristine features of the days when the Creek hunted on its banks, or disported himself upon its waters. A little way out from the river, on either side, among the “hollows” formed by little creeks and smaller streams, live a people, half-agricultural, half-piscatorial—a sinewy, yellow-headed, whiskey-loving set. Those south of the river, are the inhabitants of “’Possum-Trot,” while those on the north are the citizens of “Turpentine.” Dick M’Coy is a ’Possum-Trotter, a fishing fellow, fishy in his stories, but always _au fait_ in regard to matters of settlement gossip. Seated on a clap-board, a little aft of the centre of the boat, and facing Dick, I was amused for several hours with his conversation, as we threaded the intricate passages of the shoals, now whizzing by and barely touching an ugly rock, now spinning round in a little whirlpool, like a tee-totum. The skill of my Palinurus, however, seemed equal to any emergency; and we alternately twisted and tumbled along, at the rate of two miles and a half an hour. As we came into a small, deep sheet of water, Dick pointed with his paddle to a smoke issuing from among the trees, on the “Turpentine” side of the river, and remarked: “Thar’s whar our _lazy_ man lives—Seaborn Brown.” “Ah! is he lazy much?” “Powerful.” “As how?” “Onct he went out huntin’, and he was so lazy he ’cluded he wouldn’t. So he laid down in the sand, close to the aidge of the water. It come on to rain like the devil, and I, seen him from t’other side, tho’t he was asleep, and hollered to him. “Ses I, ‘it’s rainin’ like wrath, Seab, and why don’t you git up?’ “Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘I’m wet any how, and thar’s no use.’ “After a little, the river begun to rise about five foot an hour, and I hollers to him agin. “Ses I, ‘Seaborn, the river’s a-risin’ on to your gun; the but’s half way in the water now.’ “Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘The water ain’t gwine to hurt the wood part.’ “I waited a few minutes, and sung out: “‘Seaborn, you’re half under water yourself, and your gun-lock is in the river!’ “Ses he, ‘I never ketches cold, and thar’s no load in the gun, and besides, she needs a washin’ out.’