A RED-HEADED FAMILY. 



" Ce'tingly I ken, ce'tingly, seh," said my 

 Cracker host, taking down his long flint-lock 

 rifle from over the cabin door and slipping his 

 frowzy head through the suspension-strap of 

 his powder-horn and bullet-pouch. " Ce'tingly, 

 seh, I ken cyarry ye ter wha' them air birds 

 hed their nestis las' yer." 



I had passed the night in the cabin,, and now 

 as I recall the experience to mind, there comes 

 the grateful fragrance of pine wood to empha- 

 size the memory. Corn " pones " and broiled 

 chicken, fried bacon and sweet potatoes, 

 strong coffee and scrambled eggs — a break- 

 fast, indeed, to half persuade one that a 

 Cracker is a bon vivant — had just been eaten. 

 I was standing outside the cabin on the rude 

 door-step. Far off through the thin pine woods 

 to the eastward, where the sun was beginning 

 to flash, a herd of " scrub " cattle were formed 

 into a wide skirmish line of browsers, led by 

 an old cow, whose melancholy bell clanged in 

 time to her desultory movements. Near by, 

 to the westward, lay one of those great gloomy 

 swamps, so common in Southeastern Georgia, 

 so repellant and yet so fascinating, so full of 

 interest to the naturalist, and yet so little ex- 

 plored. The perfume of yellow jasmine was 

 in the air, along with those indescribable 

 woodsy odors which almost evade the sense 

 of smell, and yet so pleasingly impress it. A 

 rivulet, slow, narrow, and deep, passed near the 



