We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then
to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still
river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel
like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed—only a little kind of a
low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever
happened to us at all—that night, nor the next, nor the next.
Mark Twain, born on this day in 1835, from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn


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