CHAPTER III. 



A BEAR IN THE CAMP. 



I'll pitch my tent on dis camp ground 



A few days, and a few days, 

 Till I give old Cuff anudder round, 

 A few days, and a few days, 



Wake, snakes, day am breaking. 



Negro Ballads. 



After one or two days of quiet southward travel, sometimes verging 

 toward the seaside, sometimes turning into the back country, we 

 came one day on the banks of the Wakassare River, a deep, black 

 stream that empties into the Gulf. No fording-place being near, 

 we halted preparatory to crossing the river — an everyday exploit 

 in travelling a new country, traversed by sluggish streams. 



Picture to the eye of fancy a camp, with all its accessories of 

 rustic comfort, its bright fire, its feeding ponies, called "Marsh 

 Tackies," dogs, and hunters under the pine woods. Before it, a 

 close hummock of tangled vines, and tall trees bordering the bank 

 of the river, and the long vines pendent from the branches. 

 Beyond this leafy barrier, turbid with the gleanings of swamps, 

 with whirl and glassy eddy, the dark tide of the river moves 

 onward to the sea, trailing with it the floating skirts of moss that 

 cling to the trees. On the far side a dense canebrake arises from 

 the low bank, from whose fastnesses, as the shadows settled on the 

 view, came forth the quacking of ducks and the booming of 

 bittern. 



On such a scene we looked one afternoon, and forthwith began 

 our preparations for crossing. Selecting from the fallen pine-trees 

 one or two logs of medium size, we cut them in uniform lengths, 

 and dragged them to the water's edge, where they were bound 

 in couples with grape-vine withes. After having made several 



