SWAMP SKETCHES. 51 



And yet the soil is not at all rich, even on 

 the hummocks, as compared with the soil 

 of our Western prairies. It is by night that 

 the swamp shows itself to the full expression 

 of its gloom, its solitude, and its real grand- 

 eur. Leaving the boatmen at the camp, I 

 spent the greater part of a night in the very 

 heart of the jungle simply to study it. 



The moon did not rise till after ten, so I 

 had two hours of intense darkness during 

 which I used my ears instead of my eyes. 



Silence vast and profound is the rule in the 

 swamp, but the exception is often very im- 

 pressive, sometimes startling. As an in- 

 stance of this: I' was comfortably seated on 

 a log between two cypress trees, about five 

 feet above the ground, waiting for the moon 

 to rise. There was no light to relieve the 

 oppressive blackness save a faint gleam of 

 sky overhead where some pale stars winked 

 through a rift. The sea breeze could not 

 reach me, but it sighed very lightly in the 

 topmost feathery tufts of the trees. The 

 beach was so far away that only a faint, 

 mellow roar came from its swashing surf. 



I had a gun across my knees, and so felt 

 no actual fear, but yet there was an unpleas- 

 ant sense of my helplessness in the presence 

 of darkness, silence, solitude, and the spirit 

 hovering in the midst of them. It was as if 

 a hand were about to be laid upon me from 

 behind, or as if a great mesh of destruction 

 were upon the point of closing around me in 

 the darkness. A damp chill hung in the 

 still atmosphere, accompanied by a peculiar 

 musty odor, comparable to nothing else, ex- 

 cept, perhaps, the noisome wafts from old 

 tombs and caves. 



In the midst of all this an owl hooted not 



