The rose of old St. Louis

How it begins

I bowed respectfully to my captain standing in the prow of the boat and looking across an expanse of swirling muddy water to the village on the bluffs beyond. I spoke more after the manner of making polite conversation than because I was desirous of information, for I knew without asking that it could be none other. My captain answered me: "Yes, my lad, yonder is St. Louis, and this is De Soto's river; what dost think of it?" "I think, sir, 'tis a great river, though not so clear a stream as the Delaware, and muddier even than the Ohio." I spoke calmly, but my heart was beating fast, and I could feel the blood rushing through my veins.