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Two swarthy, wrinkled sailors were 

 mopping the deck, one of them whistling 

 contentedly a lugubrious tune, so his looks 

 suggested, while the other grumbled in 

 mongrel patois. Right ahead of us, under 

 the lifting fog, I saw a marsh, beyond 

 which a forest of live-oaks was dimly 

 outlined. As my skipper had told me 

 that we were off the west shore of Borgne, 

 I at once recognized the place, and gave 

 orders that the schooner should be sailed 

 into a bight at the mouth of a little bayou 

 coming through the marsh from the dis- 

 tant hummock-lands. In fact, we sailed 

 up the bayou for a mile or more, and lay 

 to, the men lowering a boat in which I 

 was to be rowed to the live-oaks. 



It was interesting to observe the silent, 

 almost stupid curiosity with which the old 

 water-dogs furtively gazed at my archery 

 tackle ; but they asked no questions, lean- 

 ing to their oars vigorously. The bayou 

 narrowed, as we ascended its winding 

 water, until there was in places scant 

 room for a full sweep of the oars. Two 

 or three marsh- hens showed themselves 

 150 



