126 ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN'S. 



blossoms. I was carrying a sprig of it in 

 my hand when I met a negro. " What is 

 this ? " I asked. " I dunno, sir." " Is n't 

 it papaw ? " " No, sir, that ain't papaw ; " 

 and then, as if he had just remembered 

 something, he added, "That 's dog banana." 

 Oftener than anywhere else I resorted to 

 the shore of the lake, to the one small 

 part of it, that is to say, which was at the 

 same time easily reached and comparatively 

 unfrequented. There going one day far- 

 ther than usual I found myself in the 

 borderland of a cypress swamp. On one 

 side was the lake, but between me and it 

 were cypress-trees; and on the other side 

 was the swamp itself, a dense wood growing 

 in stagnant black water covered here and 

 there with duckweed or some similar growth : 

 a frightful place it seemed, the very abode 

 of snakes and everything evil. Stories of 

 slaves hiding in cypress swamps came into 

 my mind. It must have been cruel treat- 

 ment that drove them to it ! Buzzards flew 

 about my head, and looked at me. " He 

 has come here to die," I imagined them say- 

 ing among themselves. " No one comes 

 here for anything else. Wait a little, and 



