342 
FOREST AND 
STREAM 
June, 1918 
Views of a characteristic ’gator hole with its overhanging saw-grass, well padded down by coons, panthers and alligators. In 
center a large slough, once six feet under water, now carpeted with dying yellow dock and the bodies of innumerable gar 
of those heavy tropic downpours at an 
early hour in the morning, made all hands 
thankful that they had constructed a real 
camp. Every available tin had been put 
out to catch the blessed torrent. And how 
good it tasted, sizzling as it went down! 
The boys found no game worth the kill¬ 
ing, although they were up before dawn 
A view of a drying area; hidden lime¬ 
stone reefs made skiff work dangerous 
with their rifles, scouting from one myrtle 
clump to another, in the immediate vicinity. 
There were visible tracks in the black, 
spongy earth—tracks of panther, coon, 
’gator, wild cat and evidences of other 
game, but these marks were old. All liv¬ 
ing things had sought deeper water! It 
meant their salvation. The night rains 
were not of sufficient volume to help mat¬ 
ters much. One day’s heat devoured it— 
lapped it up or drove it down into the 
muck. Palmetto cabbage had begun to 
make its appearance. There were huge 
clusters of it, rank and offensive. 
C ATLOW and John were puzzled at the 
peculiar growths on the saw grass. 
High up on the blades, which had 
been oddly pulled together, sometimes as 
many as thirty in a group, there were well- 
fashioned balls of fibre, leaves and tiny 
twigs. 
“These,” explained Mr. King, “are the 
aerial dry-season nests of a small ant. 
When the surrounding country is compar¬ 
atively free from water, the colony begins 
bungalow work. The ants have intuition 
of a highly intelligent order. They know 
that sooner or later the wet season will set 
in—that they will be temporarily isolated— 
that the hammocks and clumps will be 
inaccessible to them. So they shrewdly 
pick out the tallest clusters of saw grass 
—and the most sturdy—weld them together 
in sufficient number, at the top, and build 
a nest. It is of sufficient proportions to 
accommodate all hands, including food and 
eggs. The nests are usually eight feet 
from the muck and will stand up under the 
most persistent and destructive storms. 
Finally, as the water level rises, they climb 
to their snug retreat, well provisioned and 
safe from harm.” 
Breakfast and lunch were of one ration 
—onion soup. Served hot, it was splen¬ 
did, nevertheless. The boys greedily 
spooned out the contents of a can of con¬ 
densed milk—and acquired a new thirst 
that remained with them until nightfall. 
It had been an enervating day! Their 
hands were feverish and blistered; their 
backs shot with rheumatic pains. Wading 
through the saw grass for so many miles 
had cut and slashed their khaki trousers 
and worn the leggings to a dilapidated 
frazzle. Toes were pushing from water 
soaked shoes. 
At five o’clock the boat rammed its nose 
into black mud and silt. As far as they 
could see ahead, it was dry country, save 
for one treacle-like thread of dark water 
that disappeared into a fringe of low trees 
three quarters of a mile further south. 
“It’s the absolute limit of the waterway,” 
Catlow and John, Jr., searching for game 
along an old Indian canoe trail 
groaned Catlow, “we’re up against it good 
and proper. I’m—I’m worried—just plain 
worried.” He could not conceal his anx¬ 
iety—an increased apprehension over any¬ 
thing he had confessed before—an appre¬ 
hension felt by his companions, if not so 
openly shown. 
Mr. King was helping John with the tent 
on the edge of a hammock. Catlow was 
gathering wood for the fire. Suddenly 
King, Sr., straightened and adjusted his 
long range glasses to his eyes. For fully 
xvir. King at his surveying instruments. In the central picture a machete has been thrust into the bed of a slough to mark its 
outer rim. When the water receded hundreds of fish died under the hot rays of the downpouring sun 
