H Swamp Beauty 



brightened as if anger had sent a heat to 

 the surface. 



One who has never heard the rattle- 

 snake's song — for I must call it that — can 

 form no just idea of its strangeness and 

 power. In volume and pitch not much 

 beyond the tremulous rasping of a grass- 

 hopper, it is a sound not to be forgotten 

 or mistaken after it has once touched the 

 ear. There is a quality in it as distinct as 

 the zest of a fruit, as memorable as the 

 fragrance of sassafras, and as terrible as a 

 first glimpse of death. These are incon- 

 gruous comparisons, but not more so than 

 the elements of that indescribable jarring 

 hum made by crotalus in the lowland 

 jungle. It is not a whit more terrible 

 actually than the noise of a cicada; but 

 yet something in it has power to stir up 

 the deepest fountains of cowardice in one's 

 nature. 



A rattlesnake struck at me, as I said a 

 moment ago, and that is why I so clearly 

 recollect every incident of that day's out- 

 ing. A genuine shock of horror seems to 

 quicken every cell in one's tissues and 

 192 



