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LEGENDS OF THE GULF COAST 
By PIOUS JEEMS 
T HE wonders and beauties of the Missis¬ 
sippi Gulf coast, although its history is 
filled with the romance of the centuries 
that followed the discoveries of Columbus, are 
little known to the great mass of Americans in 
the Eastern and Northeastern States. The 
building of the Gulf and Ship Island Railroad 
was followed by the development of the great 
lumber interests and the work of Captain Jones 
in the building up of the city of Gulfport and 
the Ship Island Harbor which has no superior 
on the Atlantic coast. It is land locked and 
capable of sheltering from the storms all the 
navies of the world. It sheltered Packingham’s 
fleet in 1812 and Farragut’s fleet during the war 
between the States. And when the Panama 
canal is completed, with railroads’ uniting Lake 
Michigan with the Gulf of Mexico, it will be 
the greatest artery of trade through the States, 
and a coaling and provision station for trans- 
Atlantic commerce passing through the canal to 
the Pacific, making the Gulf of Mexico to 
America what the Mediterranean is to Europe. 
The harbor of Ship Island was first used by 
Le Moyne d’Iberville, the pioneer of French 
colonization of the gulf coast and founder of 
the Province of Louisiana. With a small fleet 
of two thirty-gun frigates and two little tenders 
(traversiers) he cast anchor in the harbor Feb. 
10 , 1699 . Selecting a site for a port at old 
Biloxi, now Ocean Springs, he founded a colony 
which he left in command of Sanville de le Vilan- 
tray, and in May returned to France. Twenty 
years afterward the port was moved to the 
site of the present city of Biloxi, which has 
experienced many changes of flag and of suze¬ 
rainty during its two centuries of existence. 
First under the French for sixty years, then it 
was transferred to Great Britain for twenty, 
next Spain held it for twenty years more, then 
for sixteen years it was disputed ground until 
the claim of the United States was acknowl¬ 
edged in 1819 . For four years, from 1861 to 
1865 , it was held by the Confederates, with the 
exception of a few hours when it was. in pos¬ 
session of Captain Melancthon Smith, whose 
fleet was kept off for a considerable time by 
a few sandbags upon which were logs painted 
to resemble columbiads commanding the en¬ 
trance to the bay. Finally Captain Smith sent 
a flag of truce ashore, when the ruse was dis¬ 
covered, but he did not stay long where he had 
gained nothing but the laughter of the old men 
and women of the towm as well as the sailors 
of the fleet. 
Four miles west of Biloxi is Beauvoir, the 
home of the late Jefferson Davis, now given by 
the sons of Confederate veterans as a home for 
the veterans of the Confederacy. The brightest 
pearl that ever shone by the whispering waves 
that kissed the beach seashore was Winnie 
Davis, the beloved daughter of the Confederacy. 
And as I stood there by the shore and listened 
to the voice of the murmuring sea, I could see 
again in memory the loved ones of this beauti¬ 
ful home on my last visit to Beauvoir before 
our great chief had crossed over the river to 
rest under the shade of the tree of life ever¬ 
lasting. I hope an old soldier who loved his 
chief may be forgiven for wandering off amid 
the waste fields of memory. 
Ocean Springs, one of the beautiful bathing 
resorts on the back bay of Biloxi, is noted as 
the original site of Fort Biloxi as well as for its 
famous springs. An Indian tradition concern¬ 
ing this place, taken by the United States com¬ 
missioner who sat at old Yazoo, will interest 
the archaeologist. This extract from the record 
concerns Hia-tubbe, sworn by Ellis, interpreter: 
“I am very old; the largest pine is not older 
than I. See! my limbs shake like the leaves 
when the wind blows.” 
“How old are you?” 
“Count the circles in the big timber, the 
wrinkles in my face, the white hairs on my 
head, the deer that I have slain, the scalps in 
my father’s lodge.” 
“Were you born in this village?” 
“My father’s fire was where the water looked 
like the grass of the prairie, and our venison 
needed no. salt.” 
“Can you name the place where the lodge of 
your father stood ?” 
“Where the pale warriors first came on the 
backs of big black birds with white wings 
(ships).” 
“Did you see them?” 
“They were gone. I saw their graves, and 
the fire of their camps, and the pale papooses 
(half-breed children), and their speaking weap¬ 
ons (guns) that they left among the Choctaws.” 
“Do you visit the big, green waters of •youth?” 
“The squaws and papooses go there.” 
“Why do they go there?” 
“In search of E-ca-na-cha-hap, the holy drink 
of the Great Spirit.” 
This aged Indian belonged to the Pascagoula 
band of Choctaws and was carried in infancy 
to the Moyabusha old towns, a very remark¬ 
able locality in the country of Nashoba, the 
chief seat in former times of the powerful and 
war-like Choctaws, and gray with lapse of ages. 
From this legend it seems that it was the habit 
of the Indians to visit the seashore for the bene¬ 
fit of the “holy drink,” as Ocean Springs were 
originally called. 
Pascagoula, another of the beautiful summer 
retreats of the sea coast, was in ante-bellum 
days the most fashionable resort of the plant¬ 
ing aristoracy of Alabama and Mississippi. Here 
may be heard the mysterious music of the gulf 
coast, about which much has been written in 
prose and verse, and many conjectures made 
as to its origin. Some persons ascribe it to 
a kind of drum fish or conch; others repudiat¬ 
ing this theory on the ground that no fish are 
found here not common all along the coast, 
claim as the cause the peculiar formation of the 
bay and the action of wind and tide. Others 
contend that it is occasioned by the ebb and flow 
of tide water over coral beds on the bottom, 
but as there are no coral beds or reefs known 
to exist here that theory amounts to nothing. 
Let the causes be what they may, the mys¬ 
terious music is no myth, being often heard 
along the shore and out on the deep waters of 
the bay. It is impossible for pen to describe 
this wonderful phenomenon, as it is a thing al¬ 
together too intangible. Fancy yourself on a 
still night upon the seashore or sitting in a boat 
upon the quiet gulf gazing into the briny depths 
of the sleeping waves, at the sparkling stars 
mirrored in the pea-green water,' when, softly 
tremulous and low, from afar out upon the 
water, dulcet tones not unlike the sweet strains 
of an yEolian harp, come floating upon the 
ambient air, breathing a bewitching strain of 
melody. Soft and low it comes at first as if 
the weird musician was stealing an echo from 
some distant shore. Then gliding noiselessly by, 
passes overhead, changing to the droning of a 
bagpipe, then becomes the melancholy wail of 
a lost spirit. Gradually it rises in circles, higher 
and -higher, clearer and brighter, like a skylark 
among the clouds, yet warbling not with voice 
of bird, but rather like some instrument from 
the celestial choir, until growing fainter and 
sweeter it loses itself among the stars. Then 
slowly it returns downward, nearer and nearer, 
and you are inundated with a shower of heav¬ 
enly melodies to the right, to the left, over¬ 
head, underfoot, from the highest treble to the 
lowest bass. Always keeping perfect time, the 
invisible musician, deftly touching his heavenly 
lyre with softest cadence, floods the air, the 
earth and sea with soul-enrapturing melodies; 
yet following no set rules, playing no known 
airs. The hearer is held spellbound, transfixed 
with its magic sweetness, until it seems to die 
away of its own soft melody, leaving in the heart 
a memory as of voices from the spirit land. 
