ONE morning in April, 1879, a Missouri River steamboat arrived at Wyandotte, Kansas, and discharged a load of colored men, women and children, with divers barrels, boxes and bundles of household effects. It was a novel, picturesque, pathetic sight. They were of all ages and sizes, and every modulation of duskiness, these new comers; their garments were incredibly patched and tattered, stretched and uncertain; their "plunder," as they called it, resembled the litter of a neglected back-yard; and there was not probably a dollar in money in the pockets of the entire party. The wind was eager, and they stood upon the wharf shivering; and when the boat backed away, a sort of dumb awe seemed to settle upon and possess them. They looked like persons coming out of a dream. And, indeed, such they were, in more than casual fancy; for this was the advance-guard of the Exodus.