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.

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