stately man three or four inches over six feet and browned by exposure to many climes, he was back there to see that old place again.  We spent a whole afternoon going about here and there and yonder, and hunting up the scenes and talking of the crimes which we had committed so long ago.  It was a heartbreaking delight, full of pathos, laughter, and tears, all mixed together; and we called the roll of the boys and girls that we picnicked and sweethearted with so many years ago, and there were hardly half a dozen of them left; the rest were in their graves; and we went up there on the summit of that hill, a treasured place in my memory, the summit of Holiday’s Hill, and looked out again over that magnificent panorama of the Mississippi River, sweeping along league after league, a level green paradise on one side, and retreating capes and promontories as far as you could see on the other, fading away in the soft, rich lights of the remote distance.  I recognized then that I was seeing now the most enchanting river view the planet could furnish.  I never knew it when I was a boy; it took an educated eye that had travelled over the globe to know and appreciate it; and John said, “Can you point out the place where Bear Creek used to be before the railroad came?” I said, “Yes, it ran along yonder.”  “And can you point out the swimming-hole?” “Yes, out there.”  And he said, “Can you point out the place where we stole the skiff?” Well, I didn’t know which one he meant.  Such a wilderness of events had intervened since that day, more than fifty years ago, it took me more than five minutes to call back that little incident, and then I did call it back; it was a white skiff, and we painted it red to allay suspicion.  And the saddest, saddest man came along—­a stranger he was—­and he looked that red skiff over so pathetically, and he said:  “Well, if it weren’t for the complexion I’d know whose skiff that was.”  He said it in that pleading way, you know, that appeals for sympathy and suggestion; we were full of sympathy for him, but we weren’t in any condition to offer suggestions.  I can see him yet as he turned away with that same sad look on his face and vanished out of history forever.  I wonder what became of that man.  I know what became of the skiff.  Well, it was a beautiful life, a lovely life.  There was no crime.  Merely little things like pillaging orchards and watermelon-patches and breaking the Sabbath—­we didn’t break the Sabbath often enough to signify—­once a week perhaps.  But we were good boys, good Presbyterian boys, all Presbyterian boys, and loyal and all that; anyway, we were good Presbyterian boys when the weather was doubtful; when it was fair, we did wander a little from the fold.