104 East and West © 
depths of the swamp and as often following the 
shore of the river, where one could at least 
see the sky and the passing clouds and hear 
the hopeful voice of the wren and the red- 
wing. Floating idly among the great leaves 
of the American lotus, which here borders the 
Roanoke, I reflected how little the lotus 
meant to those who dwelt on the banks of 
that yellow stream, how deeply it was in- 
volved in the thought of dwellers on the 
banks of other yellow streams. What cen- 
turies of tradition, of veneration and mysti- 
cism envelop it in Asia, whereas here—how 
many even know that the lotus grows upon 
our soil and is as native here as is the Indian 
lotus there? But it is not indigenous to our 
American thought—this mystic plant—and 
will never be domesticated there, no matter 
how it may thrive by the Roanoke. 
Towards evening the buzzards would drop 
from the sky and fold their wings in the 
swamp, while on the lotus-fringed banks of 
the yellow river arose the tremulous chorus 
of frogs. In the all-pervading stillness this 
seemed the very voice of the cypress swamp— 
of the primordial world itself, still sounding 
its rhythmical chant as though man had not 
yet appeared to disturb its ancient seclusion. 
