THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP.
However hard and fast the door of the Swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. There is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. That is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:—
That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber.That which moves, let it swiftly pass.
That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber.That which moves, let it swiftly pass.
That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber.
That which moves, let it swiftly pass.
Else the Swamp will never reveal itself. The sound of one alien footfall is enough. It is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. The Swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,—the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. But those who stand by the bargainthat all key-bearers must make—whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim—find the Swamp more friendly. There is no disguise anywhere. The secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer Jack-o'-the-Lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees.
The unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. It is an alien and is shut out. And this is one of the mysteries. If, when the door of the Swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,—have patience. It is a delusion. Underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn—a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand.
Not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the Swamp. This is no alien note, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:—
"We wish you well, Mr. Fox. Don't choke yourself with the feathers. Good-night, Mr. Fox, good-night!"
Two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:—
"Too late, Mr. Mink, too late! Better luck next time. Good-night!"
A rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the Leander of the Swamp slips into the water. Jack-o'-the-Lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:—
"Farewell, Mr. Muskrat! Good luck and good-night!"
Surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,—snapping, growling, and fighting. Have stray dogs crept under the door? Oh, no! The Swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. It is a wonderful frolic! Mr. Red Fox has met Mr. Gray Fox face to face. Something tells Mr. Red Fox "Here's your father's enemy." Something whispers to Mr. Gray, "Here's your mother's murderer." And so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. Mr. Gray Fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. Without warning he turns tail and flies, with Mr. Red Fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. They run until they are past the boundary line,—the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,—and then, of course, the Swamp has no further concern with them. And the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home.