Charley Adams was trudging up to his knees in snow, on his way home from down town. It was Washington's Birthday, 1849, and winter had sent St. Louis a late valentine in shape of a big snowstorm.
In the estimate of the affable brakeman (a gentleman wearing sky-blue army pantaloons tucked into cowhide boots, half-buttoned vest, flannel shirt open at the throat, and upon his red hair a flaring-
THE river is coming up at the rate of an inch an hour!” announced Mr. Miller, reading from the evening paper. “At one o’clock it was eighteen feet, and reports from the
