CRUISING FOR CROCODILE 



HOW THE HIDE HUNTERS OF THE SOUTH ARE 

 DESTROYING THE LAST OF THE SAURIANS 



By G. H. CLEMENTS 



Illustrations by the author 



THE TEMPLE 



DECENTLY I cruised in the rivers 

 of Florida and skirted the ba- 

 yous and swamps of Louisiana — 

 where the American crocodile once 

 swarmed — without seeing a specimen. 

 The hunter and invalid-tourist have 

 done their worst. However, the hardy 

 explorer, willing" to brave the fatigues 

 and mosquitoes of the wilderness, may 

 still hope to see and hear things of 

 nature. If he ever hears the bellow 

 of a bull crocodile and sees him in full 

 size in his haunt, he will want to tell 

 about him forever after. 



In sight of the deep woods in the 

 swampy bayous bordering the Gulf of 

 Mexico, lies Barataria, a bayou, a bog 

 and a rank borderland, inhabited by 

 hunters and fishermen. They prey upon 

 the game feeding in the malarial waters 



and oak-covered islands, using the bay- 

 ous and lakes as a highway to the mar- 

 ket at New Orleans. The hide of the 

 alligator is the quest of many, and is 

 sought winter and summer — the year 

 round. 



I found my way to the home of the 

 hunters and engaged two to guide me 

 through the rank maze of sloughs to 

 their hunting grounds. 



Being summer, it was a quest with 

 shotgun and rifle. Leonce, the Creole, 

 had just returned with fifty-five skins 

 for the itinerant merchant. He had been 

 paid from twenty-five to fifty cents each 

 for them, and was recovering from the 

 usual orgie, which left such an attack 

 of hiccoughs that quarts of swamp 

 water failed to cure it. He was 

 left to himself without regret, and 



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