THE BLACK VULTURE 



"Umph!" muttered the Deacon and started for the stable. 



My soul sang for joy as I went to pack my paraphernalia. 



This was the beginning of a series of swamp-studies that is, 

 in all probability, without an equal in natural history or photogra- 

 phy. The Limberlost at that time was no joke. It had not been 

 shorn, branded and tamed. There were most excellent reasons 

 why I should not go there. Most of it was impenetrable. There 

 had been one or two roads cut by expert lumbermen, who had lo- 

 cated valuable trees, and a very little timber had been taken out. 

 No one knew when tree-hunters were there, and always it had been 

 a rendezvous for outlaws and cutthroats in hiding. The swamp 

 was named for a man who became lost in its fastnesses and wan- 

 dered about, failing to find the way out until he died of starvation. 

 In its physical aspect it was steaming, fetid, treacherous swamp 

 and quagmire, filled with every danger common to the central 

 states. 



A few oil-wells had been drilled near the head of the swamp, 

 and it was over a road, cut to one of these, that we were to travel 

 as far as a certain well. After that the way led north a quarter 

 of a mile, and then straight east, until we came to the prostrate 

 trunk of a giant elm, with a hollow five feet in diameter. That 

 sounds easy but it was not. In the beginning I had to pay a lessee 

 a dollar for the privilege of driving over the road the oil and 

 lumbermen used. A rod inside the swamp the carriage wheels on 

 one side mired to the hub. Another rod, I took the camera in- 

 tended for use in my lap and shielded it with my arms. Every 

 few yards I expected the light carriage we drove to be twisted 

 to pieces. We left it at the oil-well and started on foot with an 

 ax, hatchet and two revolvers, to find the tree. 



The Deacon wore high, heavy leather boots and I wore waist - 



79 



