A RED-HEADED FAMILY. 
“ Ce’TINGLY I ken, ce’tingly, seh,” said my 
Cracker host, taking down his long flint-lock 
rifle from over the cabin door and slipping his 
frowzy head through the suspension-strap of 
his powder-horn and bullet-pouch. ‘“ Ce’tingly, 
seh, I ken cyarry ye ter wha’ them air birds 
hed their nestis las’ yer.” 
I had passed the night in the cabin, and now 
as I recall the experience to mind, there comes 
the grateful fragrance of pine wood to empha- 
size the memory. Corn “ pones” and broiled 
chicken, fried bacon and sweet potatoes, 
strong coffee and scrambled eggs—a break- 
fast, indeed, to half persuade one that a 
Cracker is a Jon vivant—had just been eaten. 
I was standing outside the cabin on the rude 
door-step. Far off through the thin pine woods 
to the eastward, where the sun was beginning 
to flash, a herd of “ scrub ”’ cattle were formed 
into a wide skirmish line of browsers, led by 
an old cow, whose melancholy bell clanged in 
time to her desultory movements. Near by, 
to the westward, lay one of those great gloomy 
swamps, SO common in Southeastern Georgia, 
so repellant and yet so fascinating, so full of 
interest to the naturalist, and yet so little ex- 
plored. The perfume of yellow jasmine was 
in the air, along with those indescribable 
woodsy odors which almost evade the sense 
of smell, and yet so pleasingly impress it. A 
rivulet, slow, narrow, and deep, passed near the 
