SWAMP SKETCHES. 



A SOUTHERN swamp is to me a very fasci- 

 nating place, a genuine land of dreams. In 

 a realistic sense it is mere mud, water, tus- 

 socks, gloom, tangled vines, and dusky tree- 

 masses ; but there is that in those dim, damp, 

 luxuriant jungles which appeals to all that 

 is romantic in one's nature. It was my fort- 

 une once to pitch my tent on a ridge of sand 

 lying between the waters of the Gulf of 

 Mexico and the mazes of a swamp whose 

 almost impenetrable woods and brakes stood 

 like a black wall by night and like a sheeny 

 screen by day set against a sky as tender as 

 the petals of a hyacinth. No sign of human 

 life was near, not even a fisherman's hut. 



The beach of my sand bar was the most 

 perfect I ever saw white, hard, and gently 

 sloping out to sea, where the greenish waves 

 ran through dreamy sunshine to the far 

 white line of the horizon. A week of south- 

 easterly winds brought up from the Carib- 

 bean islands a soft fragrance and balm, and 

 kept the water in brisk motion, so that it 

 lapped the sand with a melodious roar, and 

 so that a dancing zigzag line of silvery spray 

 marked the surf margin as far as one could 

 see. 



In the south-west a long crescent of marsh 



ran from the swamp to the sand. There all 



manner of sea birds congregated at times 



with a shimmer of wings and a clash of 



4 49 



