IN A PALACE OF REEDS. 127 



In shape it is shorter and broader, but resem- 

 bles somewhat the rock-bass. 



We sketched our fish while alive, and I find, 

 among many other curious reminders of the 

 palace, a pencil drawing of the great Southern 

 gar, a fish with a bill much like a snipe's. 

 This specimen we did not catch, but bought it 

 of an old negro, who, every Saturday, rain or 

 shine, visited our camp, coming from a planta- 

 tion quarter some miles up the river. He was 

 a piper, a sort of African Pan, who blew lively 

 pieces of barbaric tunes out of reed joints 

 arranged in triangular form. He came to sell 

 us eggs of the guinea fowl, which I suspect he 

 stole, albeit they made very fine omelets. He 

 taught us a new and ingenious method of 

 snaring hares and birds. Our water-color 

 sketches were wonderful to his eyes, and he 

 babbled about them in a supremely droll way. 



To dwellers in the Northern and Middle 

 States, it may seem strange, this out-door life, 

 but it must be remembered that the hills and 

 valleys of Cherokee Georgia, are dry and 

 warm from April to September, dews are light, 

 the air pure, and, for weeks together, the sky is 

 cloudless day and night. I recall a perfect 

 February, it must have been in 1859. Will 

 and I, then mere boys, staid out during the en- 

 tire month and not a drop of rain fell. Every 

 day was warm and clear, the nights were cool 

 and pleasant. No clouds, scarcely any wind 

 — a month of rare dreamy weather, not unlike 

 northern Indian summer. 



Many a night in July and August I have slept 

 in the open air under a tree, preferring it to a 

 cot or bed indoors. A hammock and a heavy 

 blanket, for the nights are chilly even in mid- 



