Creative Books

It just
drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you
don't see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as
ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we've turned back three or
four hundred years."
"What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?" asked
Warner, looking curiously at Dick.
"Why, don't you see them out there?"
"See them out there? See what?"
"Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul,
George, they're the caravels of Spain! Look, they're stopping! Now they
lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man
in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing
at the ship's edge saying something. I think he's praying, boys.
Now sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the
river and disappears. It's the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters
which he discovered!"
"Dick, you're dreaming," exclaimed Pennington.
"Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a
lily.


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