N the course of the tug-boat gossip, it came out that outof every five of my former friends who had quitted the river,four had chosen farming as an occupation. Of course this was notbecause they were peculiarly gifted, agriculturally, and thusmore likely to succeed as farmers than in other industries:

the reason for their choice must be traced to some other source.

Doubtless they chose farming because that life is privateand secluded from irruptions of undesirable strangers--like the pilot-house hermitage. And doubtless they also choseit because on a thousand nights of black storm and dangerthey had noted the twinkling lights of solitary farm-houses,as the boat swung by, and pictured to themselves the serenityand security and coziness of such refuges at such times,and so had by-and-bye come to dream of that retired and peacefullife as the one desirable thing to long for, anticipate, earn, andat last enjoy.

But I did not learn that any of these pilot-farmers had astonished anybodywith their successes. Their farms do not support them: they supporttheir farms. The pilot-farmer disappears from the river annually,about the breaking of spring, and is seen no more till next frost.

Then he appears again, in damaged homespun, combs the hayseedout of his hair, and takes a pilot-house berth for the winter.

In this way he pays the debts which his farming has achieved duringthe agricultural season. So his river bondage is but half broken;he is still the river's slave the hardest half of the year.

One of these men bought a farm, but did not retire to it.

He knew a trick worth two of that. He did not propose to pauperizehis farm by applying his personal ignorance to working it.

No, he put the farm into the hands of an agriculturalexpert to be worked on shares--out of every three loadsof corn the expert to have two and the pilot the third.

But at the end of the season the pilot received no corn.

The expert explained that his share was not reached. The farmproduced only two loads.

Some of the pilots whom I had known had had adventures--the outcome fortunate, sometimes, but not in all cases.

Captain Montgomery, whom I had steered for when he was a pilot,commanded the Confederate fleet in the great battle before Memphis;when his vessel went down, he swam ashore, fought his way througha squad of soldiers, and made a gallant and narrow escape.

He was always a cool man; nothing could disturb his serenity.

Once when he was captain of the 'Crescent City,' I was bringingthe boat into port at New Orleans, and momently expecting ordersfrom the hurricane deck, but received none. I had stoppedthe wheels, and there my authority and responsibility ceased.

It was evening--dim twilight--the captain's hat was perched uponthe big bell, and I supposed the intellectual end of the captainwas in it, but such was not the case. The captain was very strict;therefore I knew better than to touch a bell without orders.

My duty was to hold the boat steadily on her calamitous course,and leave the consequences to take care of themselves--which I did.

So we went plowing past the sterns of steamboats and getting closerand closer--the crash was bound to come very soon--and still that hatnever budged; for alas, the captain was napping in the texas....

Things were becoming exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable.

It seemed to me that the captain was not going to appear in timeto see the entertainment. But he did. Just as we were walkinginto the stern of a steamboat, he stepped out on deck, and said,with heavenly serenity, 'Set her back on both'--which I did;but a trifle late, however, for the next moment we went smashing throughthat other boat's flimsy outer works with a most prodigious racket.

The captain never said a word to me about the matter afterwards,except to remark that I had done right, and that he hoped I would nothesitate to act in the same way again in like circumstances.

One of the pilots whom I had known when I was on the riverhad died a very honorable death. His boat caught fire,and he remained at the wheel until he got her safe to land.

Then he went out over the breast-board with his clothingin flames, and was the last person to get ashore.

He died from his injuries in the course of two or three hours,and his was the only life lost.

The history of Mississippi piloting affords six or seven instances of thissort of martyrdom, and half a hundred instances of escapes from a like fatewhich came within a second or two of being fatally too late; BUT THEREIS NO INSTANCE OF A PILOT DESERTING HIS POST TO SAVE HIS LIFE WHILE BYREMAINING AND SACRIFICING IT HE MIGHT SECURE OTHER LIVES FROM DESTRUCTION.

It is well worth while to set down this noble fact, and well worth while toput it in italics, too.

The 'cub' pilot is early admonished to despise all perilsconnected with a pilot's calling, and to prefer any sortof death to the deep dishonor of deserting his postwhile there is any possibility of his being useful in it.

And so effectively are these admonitions inculcated,that even young and but half-tried pilots can be depended uponto stick to the wheel, and die there when occasion requires.

In a Memphis graveyard is buried a young fellow who perishedat the wheel a great ............