“I don’t see what they had to eat,” suggested the prosaic Spinster. “You don’t understand, ma’am. These islands are just as dry and nice as any land about here, and the swamp soil is mighty rich, so of course they could just grow anything they had a mind to. Of course they were helped also by friendly slaves on the plantations ’round here, and then they had their cattle and honey to help out.” “Cattle and honey!” exclaimed the Spinster. “Yes, ma’am; and they’re here yet. I get all the honey maw and I want to eat from the hives of wild bees here, and most of my beef comes from here, too. Besides, many a quarter I’ve sold. There’s no better eatin’ than the swamp cattle. But a cur’us thing about ’em is that their horns is polished just like ivory. It comes from pickin’ up their livin’ in the swamp and brushin’ constant against tree trunks and reeds and the like.” “I don’t see how they came here in the first place, and I don’t see what they live on in the second place,” continued the Spinster, glancing at the edges of the swamp on either side of our narrow channel, which seemingly consisted only of masses of dead leaves, dank moss, and reeds. “Oh, I suppose they was tame cattle in the first place that strayed in here an’ then stayed an’ multiplied just as the slaves did. An’ as for eatin’, you ain’t seen the swamp grass, ma’am; it’s mighty rich.” “I should think it would be unhealthy here,” said I. “I don’t see how those fugitive slaves flourished to the third generation.” “Well, no; that’s the queer part of it. It ain’t unhealthy. Those niggers who dug this ditch died of fever, but the swamp itself ain’t unhealthy. On the contrary, the medical folks say it’s a good place for consumptives, and that this swamp water you see here, just as brown as coffee, is good for ’em to drink. There’s been some talk of puttin’ up a hotel on the shore of Lake Drummond for a health resort, and cuttin’ a channel wide enough for a steamboat to run regular, but I hope they won’t get to it in my time. I can’t hope that the Swamp’ll last much longer,” he continued, with a sigh. “You see how black and rich the ground is, and if it was drained and cleared it would be mighty productive. Some capitalists are already talking of doing that and dividing it off into farms.” This was a plan that pleased the Spinster, and she kept our guide talking on this and kindred topics until the sun, creeping on, stood directly overhead, and it was noon, and we had reached the limit of our journey. We forgot our prosaic talk of so short a time before when we stood on the shores of Lake Drummond. There lay the magic lake, boldly gray, even in brightest sunshine. Waves which were born from the winds of the wilderness lapped the pebbles at our feet. Although the sun shone warm upon us, it could not overcome the feeling of awe-struck loneliness. “Do you notice,” said my companion softly, “that even the bird-calls of the swamp have ceased?”