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, su.” “dsn’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 
