happy all over, like a dog fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The people had moved out of them.  The bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over.  People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time.  Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time.  Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons.  There was considerable whisky drinking going on, and I seen three fights.  By and by somebody sings out: “Here comes old Boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!” All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun out of Boggs.  One of them says: “Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time.  If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now.” Another one says, “I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year.” Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an Injun, and singing out: “Cler the track, thar.  I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise.” He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face.  Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back,