Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.François gets an Ugly Fall.The next encampment of our hunters was upon the Bayou Crocodile. This, like all the bayous of Louisiana, is a sluggish stream, and here and there expands itself into large ponds or lakes. It is called Bayou Crocodile from the great number of alligators that infest its waters, though in this respect it differs but little from the other rivers of Louisiana.The spot chosen for the camp was an open space upon the bank, at a point where the bayou widened into a small lake. The situation commanded a view of the shores of this lake all round—and a singular view that was. Giant trees rose over the water—live oaks and cypresses—and from their spreading branches the Spanish moss hung trailing down like long streamers of silver thread. This gave the upper part of the woods a somewhat hoary appearance, and would have rendered the scene rather a melancholy one, had it not been for the more brilliant foliage that relieved it. Here and there a green magnolia glistened in the sun, with its broad white flowers, each of them as large as a dining-plate. Underneath grew the thick cane (arundo gigantea), its tall pale-green reeds standing parallel to each other, and ending in lance-shaped blades, like stalks of giant wheat before its ears have shot. Over this again rose the grey limbs of the tupeloo-tree (nyssa aquatica), with light leaves and thin foliage. The beautiful palmetto (chamaerops) lifted its fan-like branches, as if to screen the earth from the hot sun that poured down upon it, and here and there its singular shapes were shadowed in the water. From tree to tree huge parasites stretched like cables—vines, and lianas, and various species of convolvulus. Some of these were covered with thick foliage, while others exhibited a surface of splendid flowers. The scarlet cups of the trumpet-vine (bignonia), the white starlike blossoms of the cypress-creeper, and the pink flowers of the wild althea or cotton-rose (hibiscus grandiflora), all blended their colours, inviting the large painted butterflies and ruby-throated humming birds that played among their silken corollas. As if in contrast with these bright spots in the landscape, there were others that looked dark and gloomy. You could see through long vistas in the forest, where the trees grew out of green slimy water. Here there was no underwood, either of cane or palmettoes. The black trunks of the cypresses rose branchless for nearly an hundred feet, and from their spreading limbs drooped the grey weeping moss. Huge “knees” could be distinguished shooting up like cones or trees that had been broken off leaving their broken trunks in the ground. Sometimes a huge creeper, a foot or more in diameter, stretched across these gloomy aisles, as though a monster serpent were passing from tree to tree.The lake was alive with alligators. These could be seen basking along the low banks, or crawling away into the dark and shadowy swamp. Some were floating gently on the surface of the stream, their long crests and notched backs protruding above the water. When not in motion these hideous creatures resembled dead logs of wood; and most of them were lying quiet—partly from their natural disinclination to move about, and partly waiting for their prey. Those that basked upon the banks held their jaws expanded, that at intervals were heard to close with a loud snap. These were amusing themselves by catching the flies, that, attracted by the musky odour, flew around their hideous jaws, and lit upon their slimy tongues. Some were fishing in the stream, and at intervals the stroke of their tails upon the water could be heard at the distance of half a mile or more. Their croaking resounded through the woods somewhat like the noise made by bull-frogs, but loud and terrible as the bellowing of bulls. A horrid appearance they presented; but our hunters were accustomed to the sight, and had no fear of these animals.There were other objects around the lake more pleasing to contemplate. On a distant point stood a troop of flamingoes, drawn up in order like a company of soldiers, their scarlet plumage shining in the sun. Near them was a flock of whooping-cranes—each as tall as a full-grown man—at intervals uttering their loud trumpet notes. The great egret, too, was there, with its snowy plumage and orange bill; the delicately-formed Louisiana heron, with droves of sand-hill cranes, appearing in the distance like flocks of white sheep.Pelicans, with their pouched throats and scythe-like bills, stood in melancholy attitudes, and beside them were the white and scarlet ibis, and the purple gallinule. Roseate spoonbills waded through the shallows, striking their odd-shaped beaks at the crabs and cray-fish; and upon projecting limbs of trees perched the black darter, his long snake-like neck stretched eagerly over the water. In the air a flock of buzzard vultures were wheeling lazily about, and a pair of ospreys hung over the lake, now and then swooping down upon their finny prey.Such was the scene around the camp of the boy hunters, a scene often to be witnessed among the wilderness-swamps of Louisiana.The tent was set near the bank of the bayou, where the ground was dry and high. The spot was open—only a few scattered palmettos growing over it—and the animals were picketed upon the grass near by. There was venison for supper. Basil’s unerring rifle had brought down a doe, just as they were about to halt; and Basil was an accomplished butcher of such-like game. The doe was soon skinned, and the choice pieces cut out—enough to serve for supper and breakfast upon the following morning. The haunches were hung on a limb, to be carried along, as the next day’s hunt might not turn out so successful. There was still enough left to make a splendid supper for Marengo, and that hungry animal took full advantage of the occasion. He knew that in an excursion like the present it was not every day that a fat doe turned up; or when it did, that such a portion of its carcass was likely to fall to his share.It was still early, wanting full two hours of sunset, when the hunters finished their supper—dinner it should rather be called—as, with the exception of some dry mouthfuls at their noon halt, they had not eaten since breakfast.When the meal was over, Basil again looked to repairing the harness of the mule—that had got out of order on the march—while Lucien drew out his note-book and pencil, and, sitting down upon a buffalo-robe, commenced entering his observations for the day. François having no employment, resolved upon creeping around the edge of the bayou, to have a shot at the flamingoes, if he should be lucky enough to get near them. This he knew would be no easy matter, but he had made up his mind to try it; and, having told his brothers of his intention, he shouldered his gun and went off.He was soon out of sight, having passed into some thick timber that grew along the edge of the water, through which there was a plain trail made by deer and other wild animals. He kept along this trail, sheltering himself behind the trees, so that the flamingoes, that were several hundred yards farther down the bayou, might not see him as he approached.He had not been out of sight more than five minutes, when Basil and Lucien were startled by the report of a gun, and then another following quickly after. They knew it was François’ fowling-piece; but what had he fired at? It could not have been the flamingoes, as he had not had time to get within range of them. Besides, the birds, where they had been sitting on the far shore, were visible from the camp; and all of them, affrighted by the reports, were now seen winging their way over the tops of the trees. No, it could not have been at the flamingoes François had fired. What then? This was the question which Basil and Lucien put to each other, not without some feelings of anxiety. Perhaps, thought they, François has sprung a deer, or trampled up a flock of turkeys? So the brothers were fain to conjecture; but their conjectures were soon ended by François himself, who was heard far off through the woods, shouting in a fearful manner.Basil and Lucien seized their rifles, and ran forward to find him; but before they could reach the piece of timber, François was seen coming up the trail between the trees, and running as if for his life! In front of him an object appeared, like a dead log, lying directly across the path. It could not be that, for it was in motion. It was a living animal—an alligator!It was one, too, of the largest dimensions—nearly twenty feet in length, and lay right across the path. Basil and Lucien saw it the moment they got opposite the opening. They saw, too, it was not that which was putting François to his speed, for he was running directly upon it. Something behind him occupied all his thoughts, and he did not see the alligator at all; for, although his brothers shouted to warn him, he ran on; and, stumbling over the hideous body of the reptile, fell flat upon his face—his gun pitching forward out of his hands as he fell. He was not hurt, however, but, scrambling to his feet again, continued his race, shouting, as he emerged half breathless out of the bushes, “A bear! a bear!”Basil and Lucien, making ready their pieces, looked along the trail. There, sure enough, was a bear coming up as fast as he could gallop. It was at him François had fired. The small shot had only served to irritate him; and, seeing such a puny antagonist as François, he had given chase.At first they all thought of taking to their heels, and seeking safety by mounting their horses; but the bear had got too near, and one or other might be caught before they could reach the horses and loose them. They resolved, therefore, to make a stand. Basil, who had been at the killing of a black bear before now, was not so much afraid of the encounter; so he and Lucien held their rifles in readiness to give Bruin a warm reception.The latter came lumbering on, until he had reached the place where the alligator lay. The reptile had turned itself half round, and was now standing on its short legs, lengthwise along the path, puffing like a pair of blacksmith’s bellows. The bear, intent upon his pursuit of François, did not see it until he had stumbled right upon its body; and then, uttering a loud snort, he leaped to one side. This gave the alligator the very opportunity he would have sought; and the next moment his powerful tail was lashed with such force against the bear, that the ribs of the latter were heard to crack under the blow.The bear—who would otherwise have left the alligator to himself—became so infuriated at this unprovoked assault, that he turned and sprang upon his new enemy, seizing him round the body in a firm hug. Both struggled over the ground, the one growling and snorting, while the other uttered a sound like the routing of a bull.How long the conflict would have lasted, and which would have proved victor had they been left to themselves, is not known; for Basil and Lucien both fired, wounding the bear. This caused him to relax his hug, and he now seemed anxious to get off; but the reptile had seized one of his feet in his powerful jaws and thus held him fast, all the while crawling and dragging him down to the water. The bear was evidently aware of the intention of his antagonist, and uttered loud and pitiful moanings, at times screaming like a hog under the knife of the butcher. It was all to no purpose. His unrelenting enemy gained the bank; and dragging him along, plunged into the deep water. Both went down together—completely disappearing from the eyes of the spectators—and although the boys watched for nearly an hour, neither beast nor reptile were seen to rise again to the surface. The bear no doubt had been drowned at once, and the alligator, after having suffocated him, had hidden his carcass in the mud, or dragged it along the bottom to some other part of the bayou—there to make a meal of it at his leisure.

The next encampment of our hunters was upon the Bayou Crocodile. This, like all the bayous of Louisiana, is a sluggish stream, and here and there expands itself into large ponds or lakes. It is called Bayou Crocodile from the great number of alligators that infest its waters, though in this respect it differs but little from the other rivers of Louisiana.

The spot chosen for the camp was an open space upon the bank, at a point where the bayou widened into a small lake. The situation commanded a view of the shores of this lake all round—and a singular view that was. Giant trees rose over the water—live oaks and cypresses—and from their spreading branches the Spanish moss hung trailing down like long streamers of silver thread. This gave the upper part of the woods a somewhat hoary appearance, and would have rendered the scene rather a melancholy one, had it not been for the more brilliant foliage that relieved it. Here and there a green magnolia glistened in the sun, with its broad white flowers, each of them as large as a dining-plate. Underneath grew the thick cane (arundo gigantea), its tall pale-green reeds standing parallel to each other, and ending in lance-shaped blades, like stalks of giant wheat before its ears have shot. Over this again rose the grey limbs of the tupeloo-tree (nyssa aquatica), with light leaves and thin foliage. The beautiful palmetto (chamaerops) lifted its fan-like branches, as if to screen the earth from the hot sun that poured down upon it, and here and there its singular shapes were shadowed in the water. From tree to tree huge parasites stretched like cables—vines, and lianas, and various species of convolvulus. Some of these were covered with thick foliage, while others exhibited a surface of splendid flowers. The scarlet cups of the trumpet-vine (bignonia), the white starlike blossoms of the cypress-creeper, and the pink flowers of the wild althea or cotton-rose (hibiscus grandiflora), all blended their colours, inviting the large painted butterflies and ruby-throated humming birds that played among their silken corollas. As if in contrast with these bright spots in the landscape, there were others that looked dark and gloomy. You could see through long vistas in the forest, where the trees grew out of green slimy water. Here there was no underwood, either of cane or palmettoes. The black trunks of the cypresses rose branchless for nearly an hundred feet, and from their spreading limbs drooped the grey weeping moss. Huge “knees” could be distinguished shooting up like cones or trees that had been broken off leaving their broken trunks in the ground. Sometimes a huge creeper, a foot or more in diameter, stretched across these gloomy aisles, as though a monster serpent were passing from tree to tree.

The lake was alive with alligators. These could be seen basking along the low banks, or crawling away into the dark and shadowy swamp. Some were floating gently on the surface of the stream, their long crests and notched backs protruding above the water. When not in motion these hideous creatures resembled dead logs of wood; and most of them were lying quiet—partly from their natural disinclination to move about, and partly waiting for their prey. Those that basked upon the banks held their jaws expanded, that at intervals were heard to close with a loud snap. These were amusing themselves by catching the flies, that, attracted by the musky odour, flew around their hideous jaws, and lit upon their slimy tongues. Some were fishing in the stream, and at intervals the stroke of their tails upon the water could be heard at the distance of half a mile or more. Their croaking resounded through the woods somewhat like the noise made by bull-frogs, but loud and terrible as the bellowing of bulls. A horrid appearance they presented; but our hunters were accustomed to the sight, and had no fear of these animals.

There were other objects around the lake more pleasing to contemplate. On a distant point stood a troop of flamingoes, drawn up in order like a company of soldiers, their scarlet plumage shining in the sun. Near them was a flock of whooping-cranes—each as tall as a full-grown man—at intervals uttering their loud trumpet notes. The great egret, too, was there, with its snowy plumage and orange bill; the delicately-formed Louisiana heron, with droves of sand-hill cranes, appearing in the distance like flocks of white sheep.

Pelicans, with their pouched throats and scythe-like bills, stood in melancholy attitudes, and beside them were the white and scarlet ibis, and the purple gallinule. Roseate spoonbills waded through the shallows, striking their odd-shaped beaks at the crabs and cray-fish; and upon projecting limbs of trees perched the black darter, his long snake-like neck stretched eagerly over the water. In the air a flock of buzzard vultures were wheeling lazily about, and a pair of ospreys hung over the lake, now and then swooping down upon their finny prey.

Such was the scene around the camp of the boy hunters, a scene often to be witnessed among the wilderness-swamps of Louisiana.

The tent was set near the bank of the bayou, where the ground was dry and high. The spot was open—only a few scattered palmettos growing over it—and the animals were picketed upon the grass near by. There was venison for supper. Basil’s unerring rifle had brought down a doe, just as they were about to halt; and Basil was an accomplished butcher of such-like game. The doe was soon skinned, and the choice pieces cut out—enough to serve for supper and breakfast upon the following morning. The haunches were hung on a limb, to be carried along, as the next day’s hunt might not turn out so successful. There was still enough left to make a splendid supper for Marengo, and that hungry animal took full advantage of the occasion. He knew that in an excursion like the present it was not every day that a fat doe turned up; or when it did, that such a portion of its carcass was likely to fall to his share.

It was still early, wanting full two hours of sunset, when the hunters finished their supper—dinner it should rather be called—as, with the exception of some dry mouthfuls at their noon halt, they had not eaten since breakfast.

When the meal was over, Basil again looked to repairing the harness of the mule—that had got out of order on the march—while Lucien drew out his note-book and pencil, and, sitting down upon a buffalo-robe, commenced entering his observations for the day. François having no employment, resolved upon creeping around the edge of the bayou, to have a shot at the flamingoes, if he should be lucky enough to get near them. This he knew would be no easy matter, but he had made up his mind to try it; and, having told his brothers of his intention, he shouldered his gun and went off.

He was soon out of sight, having passed into some thick timber that grew along the edge of the water, through which there was a plain trail made by deer and other wild animals. He kept along this trail, sheltering himself behind the trees, so that the flamingoes, that were several hundred yards farther down the bayou, might not see him as he approached.

He had not been out of sight more than five minutes, when Basil and Lucien were startled by the report of a gun, and then another following quickly after. They knew it was François’ fowling-piece; but what had he fired at? It could not have been the flamingoes, as he had not had time to get within range of them. Besides, the birds, where they had been sitting on the far shore, were visible from the camp; and all of them, affrighted by the reports, were now seen winging their way over the tops of the trees. No, it could not have been at the flamingoes François had fired. What then? This was the question which Basil and Lucien put to each other, not without some feelings of anxiety. Perhaps, thought they, François has sprung a deer, or trampled up a flock of turkeys? So the brothers were fain to conjecture; but their conjectures were soon ended by François himself, who was heard far off through the woods, shouting in a fearful manner.

Basil and Lucien seized their rifles, and ran forward to find him; but before they could reach the piece of timber, François was seen coming up the trail between the trees, and running as if for his life! In front of him an object appeared, like a dead log, lying directly across the path. It could not be that, for it was in motion. It was a living animal—an alligator!

It was one, too, of the largest dimensions—nearly twenty feet in length, and lay right across the path. Basil and Lucien saw it the moment they got opposite the opening. They saw, too, it was not that which was putting François to his speed, for he was running directly upon it. Something behind him occupied all his thoughts, and he did not see the alligator at all; for, although his brothers shouted to warn him, he ran on; and, stumbling over the hideous body of the reptile, fell flat upon his face—his gun pitching forward out of his hands as he fell. He was not hurt, however, but, scrambling to his feet again, continued his race, shouting, as he emerged half breathless out of the bushes, “A bear! a bear!”

Basil and Lucien, making ready their pieces, looked along the trail. There, sure enough, was a bear coming up as fast as he could gallop. It was at him François had fired. The small shot had only served to irritate him; and, seeing such a puny antagonist as François, he had given chase.

At first they all thought of taking to their heels, and seeking safety by mounting their horses; but the bear had got too near, and one or other might be caught before they could reach the horses and loose them. They resolved, therefore, to make a stand. Basil, who had been at the killing of a black bear before now, was not so much afraid of the encounter; so he and Lucien held their rifles in readiness to give Bruin a warm reception.

The latter came lumbering on, until he had reached the place where the alligator lay. The reptile had turned itself half round, and was now standing on its short legs, lengthwise along the path, puffing like a pair of blacksmith’s bellows. The bear, intent upon his pursuit of François, did not see it until he had stumbled right upon its body; and then, uttering a loud snort, he leaped to one side. This gave the alligator the very opportunity he would have sought; and the next moment his powerful tail was lashed with such force against the bear, that the ribs of the latter were heard to crack under the blow.

The bear—who would otherwise have left the alligator to himself—became so infuriated at this unprovoked assault, that he turned and sprang upon his new enemy, seizing him round the body in a firm hug. Both struggled over the ground, the one growling and snorting, while the other uttered a sound like the routing of a bull.

How long the conflict would have lasted, and which would have proved victor had they been left to themselves, is not known; for Basil and Lucien both fired, wounding the bear. This caused him to relax his hug, and he now seemed anxious to get off; but the reptile had seized one of his feet in his powerful jaws and thus held him fast, all the while crawling and dragging him down to the water. The bear was evidently aware of the intention of his antagonist, and uttered loud and pitiful moanings, at times screaming like a hog under the knife of the butcher. It was all to no purpose. His unrelenting enemy gained the bank; and dragging him along, plunged into the deep water. Both went down together—completely disappearing from the eyes of the spectators—and although the boys watched for nearly an hour, neither beast nor reptile were seen to rise again to the surface. The bear no doubt had been drowned at once, and the alligator, after having suffocated him, had hidden his carcass in the mud, or dragged it along the bottom to some other part of the bayou—there to make a meal of it at his leisure.

Chapter Eight.About Alligators.The boys now returned to their tent, impressed with curious feelings by the scene they had just witnessed. They lay down upon the grass, and entered into a conversation, of which bears and alligators formed the subjects. The latter, however, with their singular and revolting habits, came in for the greater share of their talk. Many odd stories in relation to them were known to all, even to the little François; and Basil being an old hunter among the swamps and bayous, was acquainted with many of the habits of these animals. But Basil was not much of an observer; and he had only noticed such peculiarities as, from time to time, were forced upon his attention by the incidents of the chase. Lucien, however, had more closely observed their habits, and had also studied them from books. He was, therefore, well acquainted with all that is known to the naturalist concerning these animals; and at the request of his brothers he consented to while away the twilight hours, by imparting to them such information about them as he himself possessed.“The alligator,” began he, “belongs to the orderSauria, or lizards. This order is again divided into several families, one of which is termedCrocodilida, or crocodiles; and the family of crocodiles is subdivided into three genera, each of which has several species.”“How many species in all?” demanded Basil.“There are not more than a dozen varieties of the whole crocodile family—at least, there are not more known to naturalists.”“Then I was thinking why there should be all this division and subdivision into orders, families, genera, and species, for a dozen varieties of the same animal, and these all so like each other in shape and habits—are they not so?”“They are,” answered Lucien, “very similar in their characteristics.”“Then, why so much classing of them? It appears to me to be quite useless.”“The object of this classing is to make the study of their natural history more easy and simple. But you are right, brother, in the present case; it appears quite useless, and only renders the thing more complex, and obscure. Where there are many varieties or species of a family or order of animals, and where these species differ widely from each other in appearance and habits, then such minute classifications become necessary to assist one’s memory; but I say again, brother, you are quite right as to the present case. There is no need for the numerous divisions and subdivisions which have been made of the crocodile family.”“Who made them, then?” asked François.“Who!” exclaimed Lucien, with some warmth; “who butcloset-naturalists, old mummy-hunters of museums! Bah! it makes one angry.”As Lucien said this, his usually mild countenance exhibited an expression of mingled indignation and contempt.“What is there in it to make one angry?” inquired Basil, looking up at his brother with some astonishment.“Why, to think,” answered Lucien, “that these same closet-naturalists should have built themselves up great names by sitting in their easy chairs measuring, and adding up, and classing into dry catalogues, objects which they knew very little about; and that little they obtained from the observations of others—true naturalists—men like the great Wilson—men who toiled, and travelled, and exposed themselves to countless dangers and fatigues for the purpose of collecting and observing; and then for these men to have the fruits of their labours filched from them, and descanted upon in dry arithmetical terms by these same catalogue-makers.—Bah!”“Stay, brother; Wilson was not robbed of the fruits of his labours! He became famous.”“Yes, and he died from the struggles and hardships that made him so. It reminds me of the fabled song of the swan, brother. He told his beautiful tale, and died. Ah! Poor Wilson, he was atruenaturalist.”“His name will live for ever.”“Ay, that it will, when many of thephilosophicnaturalists, now so much talked of, shall be forgotten, or only remembered to have their quaint theories laughed at, and their fabulous descriptions turned into ridicule. Fortunately for Wilson, he was too poor and too humble to attract their patronage until his book was published. Fortunately for him he knew no great Linneus or Count Buffon, else the vast stores which he had been at so much pains to collect would have been given to the world under another name. Look at Bartram.”“Bartram!” exclaimed François; “why, I never heard the name, Luce.”“Nor I,” added Basil.“There it is, you see. Few know his name; and yet this same John Bartram, a farmer of Pennsylvania, who lived an hundred years ago, did more to spread, not only a knowledge of American plants, but the plants themselves, than any one who has lived since. Most of the great gardens of England—Kew among the rest—are indebted to this indefatigable botanist for their American flora; and there were few of the naturalists of that time—Linneus not excepted—that were not largely indebted to him for their facts and their fame. They took his plants and specimens—collected by arduous, toilsome, and perilous journeyings—they put names to them—noble and kingly names—for king-sycophants most of them were, these same naturalists—theydescribedthem astheycall it—such descriptions, indeed! and then adopted them as their own discoveries. And what did they give John Bartram in return for all his trouble? Why, the English king gave him 50 pounds to enable him to travel over thousands of miles of wilderness in search of rare plants, many of which on reaching England were worth hundreds of pounds each! This was all the poor botanist had for enriching the gardens of Kew, and sending over the first magnolias and tulip-trees that ever blossomed in England! What did the scientific naturalists do for him? They stole his histories and descriptions, and published them under their own names. Now, brothers, what think you of it? Is it not enough to spoil one’s temper when one reflects upon such injustice?”Both Basil and François signified their assent.“It is to such men as Hearne, and Bartram, and Wilson, that we are indebted for all we know of natural history—at least, all that is worth knowing. What to us is the dry knowledge of scientific classifications? For my part, I believe that the authors of them have obscured rather than simplified the knowledge of natural history. Take an example. There is one before our eyes. You see those long streamers hanging down from the live oaks?”“Yes, yes,” replied François; “the Spanish moss.”“Yes, Spanish moss, as we call it here, orold-man’s-beardmoss, as they name it in other parts. It is no moss, however, but a regular flowering plant, although a strange one. Now, according to these philosophic naturalists, that long, stringy, silvery creeper, that looks very like an old man’s beard, is of the same family of plants as the pineapple!”“Ha! ha! ha!” roared François; “Spanish moss the same as a pineapple plant! Why, they are no more like than my hat is to the steeple of a church.”“They are unlike,” continued Lucien, “in every respect—in appearance, in properties, and uses; and yet, were you to consult the dry books of the closet-naturalists, you would learn that this Spanish moss (Tillandsia) was of a certain family of plants, and a few particulars of that sort, and that is all you would learn about it. Now what is the value of such a knowledge? What is it to compare with a knowledge of the appearance, the structure, and character of the plant—of its properties and the ends for which nature designed it—of its uses to the birds and beasts around—of its uses to man—how it makes his mattress to sleep on, stuffs his sofas, and saddles, and chairs equal to the best horse-hair, and would even feed his horse in case of a pinch? In my opinion, these are the facts worth knowing; and who are the men who publish such facts to the world? Not your closet-naturalists, I fancy.”“True, very true, brother; but let us not vex ourselves about such things; go on, and tell us what you know of the crocodiles.”“Well, then,” said Lucien, returning to his natural tone and manner, “as I have already said, the crocodiles are divided into three genera—crocodiles,gavials, andalligators. It is Baron Cuvier who has made this distinction; and he rests it more upon the shape of the head and the set of the teeth, than upon any real difference in the appearance or habits of these animals. The crocodiles have long, pointed, narrow snouts, and a large tooth in each side of the lower jaw, which, when the mouth shuts, passes into a groove in the upper. ‘These are thetruecrocodiles,’ says Monsieur Cuvier. The gavials have also long, pointed, narrow, roundish snouts, but their teeth are nearly equal-sized and even. The alligators, on the contrary, have broad pike-shaped noses, with teeth very unequal, and one large one on each side of the lower jaw, that, when the mouth shuts, passes—not into a groove as with the crocodile—but, into a hole or socket in the upper jaw. These are Monsieur Cuvier’s distinctions; which he takes a world of pains to point out and prove. He might, in my opinion, have spared himself the trouble, as there are so few varieties of the animal in existence, that they might have been treated of with greater simplicity as so many species of the genus ‘crocodile.’“Of the true crocodiles there are five species known. Four of these are found in the rivers of Africa, while the fifth is an inhabitant of the West Indies and South America. The gavial is found in Asia—particularly in the Ganges and other Indian rivers, and is the crocodile of those parts. The alligator belongs to America, where it is distributed extensively both in North and South America. In the Spanish parts it is called ‘caïman,’ and there are two species well-known, viz the spectacled caïman of Guiana, and the alligator of the Mississippi. No doubt, when the great rivers of South America have been properly explored, it will come to light, that there are other varieties than these. I have heard of a species that inhabits the Lake Valencia in Venezuela, and which differs from both the American species mentioned. It is smaller than either, and is much sought after by the Indians for its flesh, which these people eat, and of which they are particularly fond. It is probable, too, that new species of crocodiles may yet be found in Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean.“Now I think it is a well-ascertained fact, that all these varieties of the crocodile family have pretty much the same habits,—differing only where such difference might be expected by reason of climate, food, or other circumstances. What I shall tell you of the alligator, then, will apply in a general way to all his scaly cousins. You know his colour,—dusky-brown above, and dirty yellowish-white underneath. You know that he is covered all over with scales, and you see that on his back these scales rise into protuberances like little pyramids, and that a row of them along the upper edge of his tail give it a notched, saw-like appearance. You notice that the tail is flattened vertically, and not like the tail of the beaver, which is compressed horizontally. You observe that the legs are short and very muscular—that there are five toes on the fore-feet, slightly webbed or palmated, and four on the hind-feet much longer and much more webbed. You notice that his head is somewhat like that of a pike, that the nostrils are near the end of the snout, the eyes prominent, and the opening of the ears just behind them. His eyes have dark pupils, with a lemon-coloured iris; and the pupils are not round, as in the eye of a man, but of an oval shape, something like those of a goat.“All these things you may observe by looking at an alligator. But there are some things about the structure of the animal which are peculiar, and which may not strike you so readily. You observe that his jaws open far back—even beyond the ears—where they are hinged or articulated into each other. Now this is a peculiar formation, and the effect is, that when the alligator opens his mouth, his neck becomes somewhat bent upwards, giving him the appearance of having moved the upper instead of the under jaw.”“Why I have often heard that that was so,” remarked François.“Many have thought so, and said so, since the time of Herodotus, who first propagated this absurd idea. It is not the fact, however. It is the lower jaw that moves, as in other vertebrated animals; but the appearance I have described leads to the mistake that has been made by careless observers. There is another point worth speaking of. The opening of the alligator’s ear is guarded by a pair of lips, which he closes the moment he goes under water. His nostrils, too, are protected by valves, which he can also close at will. There is also a peculiarity about his vertebrae. These are so jointed to each other, that he cannot turn without describing a circle with his body. He can move his head but slightly to one side or the other; and this is a fortunate circumstance, if not for him, at least for his enemies. Were he able to turn short round, or twist himself about, as serpents do, he would be a most dangerous creature to encounter. As it is, the great length of his body, combined with the shortness of his legs and the impossibility of his getting round quickly, renders him an easy antagonist on land, provided you keep out of reach of his great jaws, and beyond the sweep of his powerful tail. This last is his true weapon of offence or defence; and asitis not restrained by any vertebrae, he can use it with such effect as to knock the breath out of a man with one single flap. Many of the habits of the alligator are known to you. How the female lays eggs as big as those of a goose, and buries them in the sand, where they are hatched by the heat of the sun. Sometimes she cannot find a sandbank to suit her purpose. She then raises a circular platform of mud mixed with grass and sticks. Upon this she deposits a layer of eggs, and covers them over with several inches of mud and grass. She then lays a fresh tier of eggs, covering these also with mud, and so on until she has laid her whole hatching, which often amounts to nearly two hundred eggs, of a dirty greenish-white colour. In the end she covers all up with mud, plastering it with her tail until it assumes the appearance of a mud oven or beaver-house. All these pains she takes to protect her eggs from raccoons and turtles, as well as vultures and other birds, that are very fond of them. She haunts near the spot while the eggs are hatching, so as to keep off these enemies. When the young are out, her first care is to get them to the water out of the way of such dangers. This seems to be their first instinct, too; for no sooner are they free from the shell than they are seen scuttling off in that direction, or following their mother, many of them having climbed upon her back and shoulders.”“But, brother,” interrupted François, “is it true that the old males eat their own young?”“Horrible though it be, it is perfectly true, François. I myself have seen it.”“And I,” said Basil, “several times.”“The first care of the mother is to get them to the water, where she can better conceal them from their unnatural parent; but, notwithstanding all her precautions, many of them fall victims, both to the old alligators, and the larger tortoises, and birds. As soon as the young ones have learned a little sense, if I may so speak, they elude their monster fathers and uncles, as they are nimbler in their movements, and can keep out of reach of their great jaws and tails. I have often seen the small alligators riding upon the backs of the larger ones, knowing that the latter could not reach them in that situation.”“They appear to eat anything that comes in their way,” remarked François.“They are not very particular as to that. Fish is their favourite food, I believe, but they will eat any land animal they can kill; and it is believed they prefer it in a state of putrefaction. That is a doubtful point. They have been known to kill large animals in the water, and leave them at the bottom for several days; but this may have happened because they were not hungry at the time, and were merely keeping them until they should get an appetite. The process of digestion with them, as with all reptiles, is very slow; hence they do not require such quantities of food as the warm-blooded animals—mammals and birds. For instance, they bury themselves in the mud, and lie asleep during the whole winter without any food.”“You say fish is their favourite food, Luce,” said Basil; “now I think they are fonder of dogs than anything else. I have often known them to come where they had heard the yelping of a dog as if for the purpose of devouring it. I have seen one seize a large dog that was swimming across the Bayou Boeuf, and drag him under, as quick as a trout would have taken a fly. The dog was never seen again.”“It is very true,” replied Lucien, “that they will eat dogs, as they will any other animals; but their being particularly fond of them is a point about which naturalists differ. It is true they will approach the spot where they hear the yelping of a dog; but some say that this is because it so much resembles the whining of their own young, and that it is these they are in search of.”“But I have seen both the males and females make towards the dog.”“Just so. The males went to devour the young, as they thought, and the females followed to protect them. Great battles are often fought between the males and females on this account.”“But how is it, Luce,” inquired François, “how is it they can catch fish that appear so much swifter than themselves?”“Very few kinds of fish are swifter. The alligator, by means of his webbed feet, and particularly his flat tail—which acts on the principle of a stern-oar to a boat, and a rudder as well—can pass through the water as swiftly as most of the finny tribe. It is not by hunting it down, however, but by stratagem, that the alligator secures a fish for his maw.”“By what stratagem?”“You have often noticed them floating on the surface of the water, bent into a sort of semicircular shape, and without moving either body or limb?”“Yes—yes; I have noticed it many a time.”“Well, if you could have looked under the water then, you would have seen a fish somewhere upon the convex side of the semicircle. The fish would be at rest—no doubt, watching the surface for his own prey: such flies or beetles as might come along. Thus occupied, he does not heed the great dusky mass that is gliding slowly towards him, and which presents no threatening appearance—for the head of the alligator is at this time turned away from his intended victim. Although apparently asleep, the alligator knows what he is about well enough. He floats silently on, until he has got the fish within sweep of his great tail, that is all the while bent like a bow; and then, taking sure aim, he strikes the unconscious prey a ‘slap’ that kills it at once—sometimes throwing it directly into his jaws, and sometimes flinging it several feet out of the water!“When on land the alligator strikes his prey in a similar manner. As he gives the blow, his head turns so as to meet the tail half-way—the whole body thus forming a semicircle. Should the prey not be killed by the blow of the tail, it is flung right into the jaws of the monster, where it is sure to be despatched in a trice.”“But, brother,” inquired Basil, “why do the alligators eat stones and such substances? I have seen one that was opened, and his stomach was nearly quarter full of stones as big as my fist, and pieces of sticks and glass. They looked as if they had been there a long time, for the sharp edges were worn off. This I never could understand.”“No wonder, for wiser naturalists than we do not know the reason of this. Some think it is upon the same principle, and for the same reason, that birds and other creatures swallow gravel and earth—to assist the process of digestion. Others have affirmed that it is for the purpose of distending the stomach, so as to enable the reptile to bear his long fast while torpid during the winter. This latter reason I look upon as very absurd, and worthy only of the fabulous Buffon. For my part, I believe that the rubbish usually found in the alligator’s stomach is collected there by accident—swallowed, from time to time, by mistake, or along with his prey; for his organs of taste are far from being delicate, and he will devour anything that is flung into the water, even a glass bottle. These substances, of course, remain in his stomach—perhaps accumulating there during his whole lifetime—and as, like most reptiles, his stomach being very strong, they do him little, if any, injury. We must not judge of an alligator’s stomach as we would that of a human being; nor, indeed, of any of his organs. If our brain is seriously injured, we die; but an alligator’s brain may be altogether removed, even in the most violent manner, and the animal will crawl off and live for days after. Instances have been known of alligators having had their brains blown out by a shot, and yet for hours after they would give battle to any one who might approach them. Their brain, like that of all reptiles, is exceedingly small—proving them lower in the scale of intelligence than birds and mammals.”“But, Lucien, you tell us that the habits of the crocodile family are alike, or nearly so: how comes it that the African crocodiles are so much more fierce, as we have heard, often attacking and devouring the natives of Senegal and the Upper Nile? Our alligators are not so. It is true they sometimes bite the legs of our negroes; and we have heard also of some boys who have been killed by them; but this was when through negligence they came in the animals’ way. They do not attack one if they are left alone. We, for instance, are not a bit afraid to approach them with only a stick in our hands.”“That is, because we feel certain they are too clumsy on land to get at us, as we can easily leap out of the reach of their tails and jaws. How would you like to swim across that bayou at this moment? I dare say you would not venture it.”“Not a bit of it—you are right there.”“And if you did, you would, in all probability, be attacked before you could reach the opposite shore. But our alligators are not now what they were an hundred years ago. We know, from the best authority, that they were then much more fierce and dangerous, and often attacked men without provocation. They have grown afraid ofus, because they know that we are dangerous to them; and they can easily distinguish our upright form and shape from those of other animals. Look how they have been hunted by men during the mania for alligator-leather, and see how many of them are still killed for their oil and tails. It is quite natural, then, they should fear us; and you may notice they are much more timid near the plantations and settlements than in the wilder parts. I have no doubt—and I have so heard it—that there are places in the great swamps where they are still dangerous to approach. Those who assert that the African crocodiles are more fierce, do not draw their conclusions from facts. The caïmans of South America—and these are alligators—are quite as fierce as the crocodiles. I have read many accounts of their attacking the natives of Guiana and Brazil, and devouring them, too. Much of this is fabulous, no doubt; but there are some stories of the kind well authenticated, and I have heard one which I am certain is true. I shall relate it, if you desire, though it is a very horrible and very melancholy tale, and I could well wish it had not been true.”“Oh! tell it—tell it us,” cried François. “We can bear the narrative; neither Basil nor I have weak nerves. Have we, Basil?”“No,” replied Basil. “I guess we can stand it, Frank. Go on, Luce.”“Very well, then,” said Lucien, “I shall give it, as it is not long, and is therefore not likely to weary you.”

The boys now returned to their tent, impressed with curious feelings by the scene they had just witnessed. They lay down upon the grass, and entered into a conversation, of which bears and alligators formed the subjects. The latter, however, with their singular and revolting habits, came in for the greater share of their talk. Many odd stories in relation to them were known to all, even to the little François; and Basil being an old hunter among the swamps and bayous, was acquainted with many of the habits of these animals. But Basil was not much of an observer; and he had only noticed such peculiarities as, from time to time, were forced upon his attention by the incidents of the chase. Lucien, however, had more closely observed their habits, and had also studied them from books. He was, therefore, well acquainted with all that is known to the naturalist concerning these animals; and at the request of his brothers he consented to while away the twilight hours, by imparting to them such information about them as he himself possessed.

“The alligator,” began he, “belongs to the orderSauria, or lizards. This order is again divided into several families, one of which is termedCrocodilida, or crocodiles; and the family of crocodiles is subdivided into three genera, each of which has several species.”

“How many species in all?” demanded Basil.

“There are not more than a dozen varieties of the whole crocodile family—at least, there are not more known to naturalists.”

“Then I was thinking why there should be all this division and subdivision into orders, families, genera, and species, for a dozen varieties of the same animal, and these all so like each other in shape and habits—are they not so?”

“They are,” answered Lucien, “very similar in their characteristics.”

“Then, why so much classing of them? It appears to me to be quite useless.”

“The object of this classing is to make the study of their natural history more easy and simple. But you are right, brother, in the present case; it appears quite useless, and only renders the thing more complex, and obscure. Where there are many varieties or species of a family or order of animals, and where these species differ widely from each other in appearance and habits, then such minute classifications become necessary to assist one’s memory; but I say again, brother, you are quite right as to the present case. There is no need for the numerous divisions and subdivisions which have been made of the crocodile family.”

“Who made them, then?” asked François.

“Who!” exclaimed Lucien, with some warmth; “who butcloset-naturalists, old mummy-hunters of museums! Bah! it makes one angry.”

As Lucien said this, his usually mild countenance exhibited an expression of mingled indignation and contempt.

“What is there in it to make one angry?” inquired Basil, looking up at his brother with some astonishment.

“Why, to think,” answered Lucien, “that these same closet-naturalists should have built themselves up great names by sitting in their easy chairs measuring, and adding up, and classing into dry catalogues, objects which they knew very little about; and that little they obtained from the observations of others—true naturalists—men like the great Wilson—men who toiled, and travelled, and exposed themselves to countless dangers and fatigues for the purpose of collecting and observing; and then for these men to have the fruits of their labours filched from them, and descanted upon in dry arithmetical terms by these same catalogue-makers.—Bah!”

“Stay, brother; Wilson was not robbed of the fruits of his labours! He became famous.”

“Yes, and he died from the struggles and hardships that made him so. It reminds me of the fabled song of the swan, brother. He told his beautiful tale, and died. Ah! Poor Wilson, he was atruenaturalist.”

“His name will live for ever.”

“Ay, that it will, when many of thephilosophicnaturalists, now so much talked of, shall be forgotten, or only remembered to have their quaint theories laughed at, and their fabulous descriptions turned into ridicule. Fortunately for Wilson, he was too poor and too humble to attract their patronage until his book was published. Fortunately for him he knew no great Linneus or Count Buffon, else the vast stores which he had been at so much pains to collect would have been given to the world under another name. Look at Bartram.”

“Bartram!” exclaimed François; “why, I never heard the name, Luce.”

“Nor I,” added Basil.

“There it is, you see. Few know his name; and yet this same John Bartram, a farmer of Pennsylvania, who lived an hundred years ago, did more to spread, not only a knowledge of American plants, but the plants themselves, than any one who has lived since. Most of the great gardens of England—Kew among the rest—are indebted to this indefatigable botanist for their American flora; and there were few of the naturalists of that time—Linneus not excepted—that were not largely indebted to him for their facts and their fame. They took his plants and specimens—collected by arduous, toilsome, and perilous journeyings—they put names to them—noble and kingly names—for king-sycophants most of them were, these same naturalists—theydescribedthem astheycall it—such descriptions, indeed! and then adopted them as their own discoveries. And what did they give John Bartram in return for all his trouble? Why, the English king gave him 50 pounds to enable him to travel over thousands of miles of wilderness in search of rare plants, many of which on reaching England were worth hundreds of pounds each! This was all the poor botanist had for enriching the gardens of Kew, and sending over the first magnolias and tulip-trees that ever blossomed in England! What did the scientific naturalists do for him? They stole his histories and descriptions, and published them under their own names. Now, brothers, what think you of it? Is it not enough to spoil one’s temper when one reflects upon such injustice?”

Both Basil and François signified their assent.

“It is to such men as Hearne, and Bartram, and Wilson, that we are indebted for all we know of natural history—at least, all that is worth knowing. What to us is the dry knowledge of scientific classifications? For my part, I believe that the authors of them have obscured rather than simplified the knowledge of natural history. Take an example. There is one before our eyes. You see those long streamers hanging down from the live oaks?”

“Yes, yes,” replied François; “the Spanish moss.”

“Yes, Spanish moss, as we call it here, orold-man’s-beardmoss, as they name it in other parts. It is no moss, however, but a regular flowering plant, although a strange one. Now, according to these philosophic naturalists, that long, stringy, silvery creeper, that looks very like an old man’s beard, is of the same family of plants as the pineapple!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared François; “Spanish moss the same as a pineapple plant! Why, they are no more like than my hat is to the steeple of a church.”

“They are unlike,” continued Lucien, “in every respect—in appearance, in properties, and uses; and yet, were you to consult the dry books of the closet-naturalists, you would learn that this Spanish moss (Tillandsia) was of a certain family of plants, and a few particulars of that sort, and that is all you would learn about it. Now what is the value of such a knowledge? What is it to compare with a knowledge of the appearance, the structure, and character of the plant—of its properties and the ends for which nature designed it—of its uses to the birds and beasts around—of its uses to man—how it makes his mattress to sleep on, stuffs his sofas, and saddles, and chairs equal to the best horse-hair, and would even feed his horse in case of a pinch? In my opinion, these are the facts worth knowing; and who are the men who publish such facts to the world? Not your closet-naturalists, I fancy.”

“True, very true, brother; but let us not vex ourselves about such things; go on, and tell us what you know of the crocodiles.”

“Well, then,” said Lucien, returning to his natural tone and manner, “as I have already said, the crocodiles are divided into three genera—crocodiles,gavials, andalligators. It is Baron Cuvier who has made this distinction; and he rests it more upon the shape of the head and the set of the teeth, than upon any real difference in the appearance or habits of these animals. The crocodiles have long, pointed, narrow snouts, and a large tooth in each side of the lower jaw, which, when the mouth shuts, passes into a groove in the upper. ‘These are thetruecrocodiles,’ says Monsieur Cuvier. The gavials have also long, pointed, narrow, roundish snouts, but their teeth are nearly equal-sized and even. The alligators, on the contrary, have broad pike-shaped noses, with teeth very unequal, and one large one on each side of the lower jaw, that, when the mouth shuts, passes—not into a groove as with the crocodile—but, into a hole or socket in the upper jaw. These are Monsieur Cuvier’s distinctions; which he takes a world of pains to point out and prove. He might, in my opinion, have spared himself the trouble, as there are so few varieties of the animal in existence, that they might have been treated of with greater simplicity as so many species of the genus ‘crocodile.’

“Of the true crocodiles there are five species known. Four of these are found in the rivers of Africa, while the fifth is an inhabitant of the West Indies and South America. The gavial is found in Asia—particularly in the Ganges and other Indian rivers, and is the crocodile of those parts. The alligator belongs to America, where it is distributed extensively both in North and South America. In the Spanish parts it is called ‘caïman,’ and there are two species well-known, viz the spectacled caïman of Guiana, and the alligator of the Mississippi. No doubt, when the great rivers of South America have been properly explored, it will come to light, that there are other varieties than these. I have heard of a species that inhabits the Lake Valencia in Venezuela, and which differs from both the American species mentioned. It is smaller than either, and is much sought after by the Indians for its flesh, which these people eat, and of which they are particularly fond. It is probable, too, that new species of crocodiles may yet be found in Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean.

“Now I think it is a well-ascertained fact, that all these varieties of the crocodile family have pretty much the same habits,—differing only where such difference might be expected by reason of climate, food, or other circumstances. What I shall tell you of the alligator, then, will apply in a general way to all his scaly cousins. You know his colour,—dusky-brown above, and dirty yellowish-white underneath. You know that he is covered all over with scales, and you see that on his back these scales rise into protuberances like little pyramids, and that a row of them along the upper edge of his tail give it a notched, saw-like appearance. You notice that the tail is flattened vertically, and not like the tail of the beaver, which is compressed horizontally. You observe that the legs are short and very muscular—that there are five toes on the fore-feet, slightly webbed or palmated, and four on the hind-feet much longer and much more webbed. You notice that his head is somewhat like that of a pike, that the nostrils are near the end of the snout, the eyes prominent, and the opening of the ears just behind them. His eyes have dark pupils, with a lemon-coloured iris; and the pupils are not round, as in the eye of a man, but of an oval shape, something like those of a goat.

“All these things you may observe by looking at an alligator. But there are some things about the structure of the animal which are peculiar, and which may not strike you so readily. You observe that his jaws open far back—even beyond the ears—where they are hinged or articulated into each other. Now this is a peculiar formation, and the effect is, that when the alligator opens his mouth, his neck becomes somewhat bent upwards, giving him the appearance of having moved the upper instead of the under jaw.”

“Why I have often heard that that was so,” remarked François.

“Many have thought so, and said so, since the time of Herodotus, who first propagated this absurd idea. It is not the fact, however. It is the lower jaw that moves, as in other vertebrated animals; but the appearance I have described leads to the mistake that has been made by careless observers. There is another point worth speaking of. The opening of the alligator’s ear is guarded by a pair of lips, which he closes the moment he goes under water. His nostrils, too, are protected by valves, which he can also close at will. There is also a peculiarity about his vertebrae. These are so jointed to each other, that he cannot turn without describing a circle with his body. He can move his head but slightly to one side or the other; and this is a fortunate circumstance, if not for him, at least for his enemies. Were he able to turn short round, or twist himself about, as serpents do, he would be a most dangerous creature to encounter. As it is, the great length of his body, combined with the shortness of his legs and the impossibility of his getting round quickly, renders him an easy antagonist on land, provided you keep out of reach of his great jaws, and beyond the sweep of his powerful tail. This last is his true weapon of offence or defence; and asitis not restrained by any vertebrae, he can use it with such effect as to knock the breath out of a man with one single flap. Many of the habits of the alligator are known to you. How the female lays eggs as big as those of a goose, and buries them in the sand, where they are hatched by the heat of the sun. Sometimes she cannot find a sandbank to suit her purpose. She then raises a circular platform of mud mixed with grass and sticks. Upon this she deposits a layer of eggs, and covers them over with several inches of mud and grass. She then lays a fresh tier of eggs, covering these also with mud, and so on until she has laid her whole hatching, which often amounts to nearly two hundred eggs, of a dirty greenish-white colour. In the end she covers all up with mud, plastering it with her tail until it assumes the appearance of a mud oven or beaver-house. All these pains she takes to protect her eggs from raccoons and turtles, as well as vultures and other birds, that are very fond of them. She haunts near the spot while the eggs are hatching, so as to keep off these enemies. When the young are out, her first care is to get them to the water out of the way of such dangers. This seems to be their first instinct, too; for no sooner are they free from the shell than they are seen scuttling off in that direction, or following their mother, many of them having climbed upon her back and shoulders.”

“But, brother,” interrupted François, “is it true that the old males eat their own young?”

“Horrible though it be, it is perfectly true, François. I myself have seen it.”

“And I,” said Basil, “several times.”

“The first care of the mother is to get them to the water, where she can better conceal them from their unnatural parent; but, notwithstanding all her precautions, many of them fall victims, both to the old alligators, and the larger tortoises, and birds. As soon as the young ones have learned a little sense, if I may so speak, they elude their monster fathers and uncles, as they are nimbler in their movements, and can keep out of reach of their great jaws and tails. I have often seen the small alligators riding upon the backs of the larger ones, knowing that the latter could not reach them in that situation.”

“They appear to eat anything that comes in their way,” remarked François.

“They are not very particular as to that. Fish is their favourite food, I believe, but they will eat any land animal they can kill; and it is believed they prefer it in a state of putrefaction. That is a doubtful point. They have been known to kill large animals in the water, and leave them at the bottom for several days; but this may have happened because they were not hungry at the time, and were merely keeping them until they should get an appetite. The process of digestion with them, as with all reptiles, is very slow; hence they do not require such quantities of food as the warm-blooded animals—mammals and birds. For instance, they bury themselves in the mud, and lie asleep during the whole winter without any food.”

“You say fish is their favourite food, Luce,” said Basil; “now I think they are fonder of dogs than anything else. I have often known them to come where they had heard the yelping of a dog as if for the purpose of devouring it. I have seen one seize a large dog that was swimming across the Bayou Boeuf, and drag him under, as quick as a trout would have taken a fly. The dog was never seen again.”

“It is very true,” replied Lucien, “that they will eat dogs, as they will any other animals; but their being particularly fond of them is a point about which naturalists differ. It is true they will approach the spot where they hear the yelping of a dog; but some say that this is because it so much resembles the whining of their own young, and that it is these they are in search of.”

“But I have seen both the males and females make towards the dog.”

“Just so. The males went to devour the young, as they thought, and the females followed to protect them. Great battles are often fought between the males and females on this account.”

“But how is it, Luce,” inquired François, “how is it they can catch fish that appear so much swifter than themselves?”

“Very few kinds of fish are swifter. The alligator, by means of his webbed feet, and particularly his flat tail—which acts on the principle of a stern-oar to a boat, and a rudder as well—can pass through the water as swiftly as most of the finny tribe. It is not by hunting it down, however, but by stratagem, that the alligator secures a fish for his maw.”

“By what stratagem?”

“You have often noticed them floating on the surface of the water, bent into a sort of semicircular shape, and without moving either body or limb?”

“Yes—yes; I have noticed it many a time.”

“Well, if you could have looked under the water then, you would have seen a fish somewhere upon the convex side of the semicircle. The fish would be at rest—no doubt, watching the surface for his own prey: such flies or beetles as might come along. Thus occupied, he does not heed the great dusky mass that is gliding slowly towards him, and which presents no threatening appearance—for the head of the alligator is at this time turned away from his intended victim. Although apparently asleep, the alligator knows what he is about well enough. He floats silently on, until he has got the fish within sweep of his great tail, that is all the while bent like a bow; and then, taking sure aim, he strikes the unconscious prey a ‘slap’ that kills it at once—sometimes throwing it directly into his jaws, and sometimes flinging it several feet out of the water!

“When on land the alligator strikes his prey in a similar manner. As he gives the blow, his head turns so as to meet the tail half-way—the whole body thus forming a semicircle. Should the prey not be killed by the blow of the tail, it is flung right into the jaws of the monster, where it is sure to be despatched in a trice.”

“But, brother,” inquired Basil, “why do the alligators eat stones and such substances? I have seen one that was opened, and his stomach was nearly quarter full of stones as big as my fist, and pieces of sticks and glass. They looked as if they had been there a long time, for the sharp edges were worn off. This I never could understand.”

“No wonder, for wiser naturalists than we do not know the reason of this. Some think it is upon the same principle, and for the same reason, that birds and other creatures swallow gravel and earth—to assist the process of digestion. Others have affirmed that it is for the purpose of distending the stomach, so as to enable the reptile to bear his long fast while torpid during the winter. This latter reason I look upon as very absurd, and worthy only of the fabulous Buffon. For my part, I believe that the rubbish usually found in the alligator’s stomach is collected there by accident—swallowed, from time to time, by mistake, or along with his prey; for his organs of taste are far from being delicate, and he will devour anything that is flung into the water, even a glass bottle. These substances, of course, remain in his stomach—perhaps accumulating there during his whole lifetime—and as, like most reptiles, his stomach being very strong, they do him little, if any, injury. We must not judge of an alligator’s stomach as we would that of a human being; nor, indeed, of any of his organs. If our brain is seriously injured, we die; but an alligator’s brain may be altogether removed, even in the most violent manner, and the animal will crawl off and live for days after. Instances have been known of alligators having had their brains blown out by a shot, and yet for hours after they would give battle to any one who might approach them. Their brain, like that of all reptiles, is exceedingly small—proving them lower in the scale of intelligence than birds and mammals.”

“But, Lucien, you tell us that the habits of the crocodile family are alike, or nearly so: how comes it that the African crocodiles are so much more fierce, as we have heard, often attacking and devouring the natives of Senegal and the Upper Nile? Our alligators are not so. It is true they sometimes bite the legs of our negroes; and we have heard also of some boys who have been killed by them; but this was when through negligence they came in the animals’ way. They do not attack one if they are left alone. We, for instance, are not a bit afraid to approach them with only a stick in our hands.”

“That is, because we feel certain they are too clumsy on land to get at us, as we can easily leap out of the reach of their tails and jaws. How would you like to swim across that bayou at this moment? I dare say you would not venture it.”

“Not a bit of it—you are right there.”

“And if you did, you would, in all probability, be attacked before you could reach the opposite shore. But our alligators are not now what they were an hundred years ago. We know, from the best authority, that they were then much more fierce and dangerous, and often attacked men without provocation. They have grown afraid ofus, because they know that we are dangerous to them; and they can easily distinguish our upright form and shape from those of other animals. Look how they have been hunted by men during the mania for alligator-leather, and see how many of them are still killed for their oil and tails. It is quite natural, then, they should fear us; and you may notice they are much more timid near the plantations and settlements than in the wilder parts. I have no doubt—and I have so heard it—that there are places in the great swamps where they are still dangerous to approach. Those who assert that the African crocodiles are more fierce, do not draw their conclusions from facts. The caïmans of South America—and these are alligators—are quite as fierce as the crocodiles. I have read many accounts of their attacking the natives of Guiana and Brazil, and devouring them, too. Much of this is fabulous, no doubt; but there are some stories of the kind well authenticated, and I have heard one which I am certain is true. I shall relate it, if you desire, though it is a very horrible and very melancholy tale, and I could well wish it had not been true.”

“Oh! tell it—tell it us,” cried François. “We can bear the narrative; neither Basil nor I have weak nerves. Have we, Basil?”

“No,” replied Basil. “I guess we can stand it, Frank. Go on, Luce.”

“Very well, then,” said Lucien, “I shall give it, as it is not long, and is therefore not likely to weary you.”

Chapter Nine.The Indian Mother and Caïman.“There is, perhaps, no part of America where the alligators grow to a greater size, and are more fierce in their nature, than upon the Magdalena, and other great rivers that run into it. These rivers flow through a low country within the tropics; their climate is of the hottest kind, and consequently most suitable to the development of the great reptiles. The indolent character of the natives, too—half-Indian, half-Spanish—prevents them from attacking and destroying these creatures with that energy that is exhibited by the inhabitants of our own country. The consequence is, that the animals in their turn are less afraid of man, and often make him their prey. The alligators of the Magdalena—or ‘caïmans,’ as they are there called—frequently destroy natives, who by any unlucky accident may have fallen into the waters frequented by them. Not unfrequently the boatmen (bogadores) who navigate the river Magdalena in theirbogas, or flat boats, drop overboard, and become the prey of the caïmans, as sailors on the ocean do of sharks. These boatmen sometimes carry rifles, for the purpose of shooting the caïmans; yet there are but few destroyed in this way, as the bogadores are too much occupied in navigating their crafts; and, moreover, it is a very difficult thing to kill an alligator by a shot. You can only do it by sending the bullet into his eye, as the rest of his body is impervious even to a musket-ball. Of course, to hit one in the eye requires a sure aim, and a good opportunity when the animal is lying still upon the bank or on the water. When out of the water a caïman may be shot in the soft elastic skin behind the fore-shoulder; but this is a very uncertain method of killing one; and several shots fired into his body at this part will often fail to prove fatal. Sometimes the natives of the Magdalena catch the caïmans with lassos; and after dragging them upon the bank, despatch them with axes and spears. Notwithstanding this, the caïmans swarm upon these rivers, and are seldom molested by the inhabitants, except at intervals when some horrid tragedy happens—when some unfortunate victim has been snatched off by them, torn in pieces, and devoured. When this occurs, the people, sympathising with the distress of their neighbour, awake from their habitual apathy, collect together, and destroy great numbers of these hideous reptiles. The story I have promised you illustrates an affair of this kind.“Avaquero(cattle-herd) lived upon the Magdalena, some miles above the city of New Carthagena. His palm-thatchedrancho, or cottage, stood at a little distance from the bank of the river, at a point where it was much infested by caïmans—as the country around was wild and thinly settled. The vaquero had a wife and one child, a daughter—who was about six or seven years old; and being a pretty little girl, and the only one, she was of course very dear to both the parents.“The vaquero was often absent from home—his business with his cattle carrying him to a great distance into the woods. But his wife thought nothing of being thus left alone. She was an Indian woman, and used to dangers, such as would terrify the females that live in great cities.“One day when her husband was absent as usual, looking after his cattle, this woman took some clothes to the river bank for the purpose of washing them. The river was the only water near the rancho; and by thus carrying the clothes to it, she saved herself the trouble of fetching the water a good way; besides, there was a broad, smooth stone by the bank, where she was accustomed to beat out her linen. Her little daughter accompanied her, carrying one of the bundles.“On reaching the spot, the woman filled her vessels with water, and commenced her work; while the child, having nothing else to occupy her, began to gather some ripe guavas, plucking them from a tree that grew out from the bank, and hung somewhat over the river. While the Indian mother was thus engaged, she was startled by a wild scream and a plunge, that were heard almost together; and, on looking round, she saw her child just sinking in the water. At the same time, she beheld a hideous object—a huge caïman—making for the spot! Filled with horror, the woman dropped her linen, and rushed out upon the bank. She did not hesitate a moment, but plunged into the river, which buried her to the neck. At that moment the child rose again to the surface. The mother seized her by the arms; and was about raising her out of the water, when the caïman swept forward open-mouthed, caught the limbs of the little girl, and with one crunch of his powerful jaws severed them from the body! The little girl screamed again; but it was her last scream. When the mother struggled to the shore, and laid the mutilated body upon the bank, the child had ceased to breathe.“For some moments sat the wretched mother, gazing upon the still quivering remains. At intervals, she stooped down and kissed the pale, withering lips. She did not weep. I have said she was an Indian. They do not act as whites do; but, anyhow, her anguish was too keen to allow her tears to flow. She did not scream or call for help. It could be of no use now. It was too late. She knew there was no one near—no one within miles of her. When she raised her eyes from the mangled corpse, it was only to rest them upon the black water, and there, under the shadow of the guava bushes, swam the hideous reptile, to and fro. He had swallowed the morsel, and was eagerly watching for more.“The countenance of the woman betrayed a mingled expression of agony and vengeance. All at once a thought seemed to strike her—a sudden resolve. She rose; and, casting a look first at the dead body, and then upon the caïman, hurried off to the house. In a few minutes she came back, bringing with her a long spear. It was the hunting-spear of her husband—often used by him in his encounters with the Brazilian tiger, and other fierce creatures of the forest. She brought also several other articles—a lasso, some cords of thepita, and a couple of knives.“On arriving at the bank, she looked anxiously over. The caïman was still there; and she turned, and stood for a moment as if considering what to do. Her mind was soon made up; and, bending forward, she thrust the spear lengthwise through what remained of her child’s body! It was a fearful act, but the feeling of revenge was strong within her. She next caught the blade of the spear—now red with blood—and placing the knives lengthwise—so that they might serve as barbs—tied them firmly upon it with thepitacord. Close up to these she pushed the mangled body, and then looped the lasso tightly to the shaft of the spear. The other end she made fast to the trunk of a guava tree—for she well knew that her own strength would avail but little against such a monster as the caïman.“When all was ready she poised the shaft, and flung spear, body, and all, into the water. Then taking the rope in her hand, she crouched behind the bushes to await the result.“She had not long to wait. The reptile, thirsting for more blood, saw the tempting morsel; and, darting forward, seized it in his huge jaws, crushing it in the act. The woman remained motionless, biding her time.“The caïmans do not masticate their food. Their teeth are not formed for that. They are only made for seizing; and the tongue—which they cannot extend forward—only serves to assist them in swallowing. In a few moments the body had disappeared down the capacious throat of the monster.The Indian Mother and CaimanSeeing this, the woman suddenly sprang to her feet, and dragged violently upon the rope, and the next moment a wild scream announced that she had succeeded in her intentions. The barbed blades had taken hold, and the caïman was secured!“Finding himself thus caught, the huge reptile dived to the bottom, then rose again, bellowing loudly, and lashing the water into foam, the blood all the while running from his jaws and nostrils. At intervals, he would rush from point to point—until suddenly checked by the strong raw-hide lasso—making the tree shake with his great strength; and this he did for a long while. His struggles at length grew fainter, and more feeble, and he lay motionless in the water. Throughout all this scene the mother sat upon the bank of the river, at times in deep silence and dejected, while at intervals her face would light up with a vengeful expression as she cast her eyes upon the monster that had robbed her of her child.“At length the gallop of a horse roused her from her reverie. She looked around. It was her husband!“The melancholy tale was soon told; and shortly after was carried to those that dwelt nearest them. The grief was general; and the sympathy that followed caused a general rising throughout the neighbourhood; and for several days afterwards a war of extermination was waged against the caïmans.“This, brothers,” said Lucien, “is a true narrative; and, in fact, it is only a year or two since the painful incident occurred.”“And a painful incident it was,” cried Basil, with some excitement. “Thunder! it makes one hate those monsters so I feel like having a shot at one this very moment; besides I want a tooth for a powder-charger;” and as he said this, he took up his rifle, and stepped out to the water’s edge. None of the alligators appeared to be within range at the moment, though dozens of them were seen moving about on the bayou.“Hold, brother!” shouted François. “Have patience a little, and I’ll bring them near enough. Place yourself in ambush, while I call them.”Now one of François’ accomplishments was an unusual talent for mimicry. He could imitate everything, from the crowing of a cock to the bellowing of a bull, and so naturally as to deceive even the animals themselves. Running down towards the bank, he crouched behind some yucca-bushes, and commenced whining and barking like a young puppy. Basil also concealed himself among the bushes.In a few seconds, several alligators were seen swimming over the bayou, coming from all sides at once. They were not long in reaching the bank where François lay concealed, and foremost of all a large male, throwing up his snout, crawled out of the water. He was calculating, no doubt, on making a meal of something; but was doomed to disappointment, and worse than that, for the sharp crack of Basil’s rifle rang upon the air, and the hideous reptile rolled over in the mud; and, after sprawling about for a while, lay motionless. He was quite dead, as the well-aimed rifle had sent a bullet right into his eye.Basil and François now showed themselves—as they did not care to waste their ammunition by shooting any more—and the rest of the alligators, seeing them, swam off faster than they had come. By the aid of Lucien’s hatchet, the largest teeth were knocked out of the jaws of the one that had been killed; and the horrid carcass was left where it lay, to feed the wolves and vultures, or anything else that chose to make a meal of it.After cooking a pot of coffee and a venison-steak for supper, our adventurers spread their buffalo-robes within the tent, and went to rest for the night.Next morning they were astir by daybreak; and after breakfasting heartily, they saddled their horses, and resumed their journey.

“There is, perhaps, no part of America where the alligators grow to a greater size, and are more fierce in their nature, than upon the Magdalena, and other great rivers that run into it. These rivers flow through a low country within the tropics; their climate is of the hottest kind, and consequently most suitable to the development of the great reptiles. The indolent character of the natives, too—half-Indian, half-Spanish—prevents them from attacking and destroying these creatures with that energy that is exhibited by the inhabitants of our own country. The consequence is, that the animals in their turn are less afraid of man, and often make him their prey. The alligators of the Magdalena—or ‘caïmans,’ as they are there called—frequently destroy natives, who by any unlucky accident may have fallen into the waters frequented by them. Not unfrequently the boatmen (bogadores) who navigate the river Magdalena in theirbogas, or flat boats, drop overboard, and become the prey of the caïmans, as sailors on the ocean do of sharks. These boatmen sometimes carry rifles, for the purpose of shooting the caïmans; yet there are but few destroyed in this way, as the bogadores are too much occupied in navigating their crafts; and, moreover, it is a very difficult thing to kill an alligator by a shot. You can only do it by sending the bullet into his eye, as the rest of his body is impervious even to a musket-ball. Of course, to hit one in the eye requires a sure aim, and a good opportunity when the animal is lying still upon the bank or on the water. When out of the water a caïman may be shot in the soft elastic skin behind the fore-shoulder; but this is a very uncertain method of killing one; and several shots fired into his body at this part will often fail to prove fatal. Sometimes the natives of the Magdalena catch the caïmans with lassos; and after dragging them upon the bank, despatch them with axes and spears. Notwithstanding this, the caïmans swarm upon these rivers, and are seldom molested by the inhabitants, except at intervals when some horrid tragedy happens—when some unfortunate victim has been snatched off by them, torn in pieces, and devoured. When this occurs, the people, sympathising with the distress of their neighbour, awake from their habitual apathy, collect together, and destroy great numbers of these hideous reptiles. The story I have promised you illustrates an affair of this kind.

“Avaquero(cattle-herd) lived upon the Magdalena, some miles above the city of New Carthagena. His palm-thatchedrancho, or cottage, stood at a little distance from the bank of the river, at a point where it was much infested by caïmans—as the country around was wild and thinly settled. The vaquero had a wife and one child, a daughter—who was about six or seven years old; and being a pretty little girl, and the only one, she was of course very dear to both the parents.

“The vaquero was often absent from home—his business with his cattle carrying him to a great distance into the woods. But his wife thought nothing of being thus left alone. She was an Indian woman, and used to dangers, such as would terrify the females that live in great cities.

“One day when her husband was absent as usual, looking after his cattle, this woman took some clothes to the river bank for the purpose of washing them. The river was the only water near the rancho; and by thus carrying the clothes to it, she saved herself the trouble of fetching the water a good way; besides, there was a broad, smooth stone by the bank, where she was accustomed to beat out her linen. Her little daughter accompanied her, carrying one of the bundles.

“On reaching the spot, the woman filled her vessels with water, and commenced her work; while the child, having nothing else to occupy her, began to gather some ripe guavas, plucking them from a tree that grew out from the bank, and hung somewhat over the river. While the Indian mother was thus engaged, she was startled by a wild scream and a plunge, that were heard almost together; and, on looking round, she saw her child just sinking in the water. At the same time, she beheld a hideous object—a huge caïman—making for the spot! Filled with horror, the woman dropped her linen, and rushed out upon the bank. She did not hesitate a moment, but plunged into the river, which buried her to the neck. At that moment the child rose again to the surface. The mother seized her by the arms; and was about raising her out of the water, when the caïman swept forward open-mouthed, caught the limbs of the little girl, and with one crunch of his powerful jaws severed them from the body! The little girl screamed again; but it was her last scream. When the mother struggled to the shore, and laid the mutilated body upon the bank, the child had ceased to breathe.

“For some moments sat the wretched mother, gazing upon the still quivering remains. At intervals, she stooped down and kissed the pale, withering lips. She did not weep. I have said she was an Indian. They do not act as whites do; but, anyhow, her anguish was too keen to allow her tears to flow. She did not scream or call for help. It could be of no use now. It was too late. She knew there was no one near—no one within miles of her. When she raised her eyes from the mangled corpse, it was only to rest them upon the black water, and there, under the shadow of the guava bushes, swam the hideous reptile, to and fro. He had swallowed the morsel, and was eagerly watching for more.

“The countenance of the woman betrayed a mingled expression of agony and vengeance. All at once a thought seemed to strike her—a sudden resolve. She rose; and, casting a look first at the dead body, and then upon the caïman, hurried off to the house. In a few minutes she came back, bringing with her a long spear. It was the hunting-spear of her husband—often used by him in his encounters with the Brazilian tiger, and other fierce creatures of the forest. She brought also several other articles—a lasso, some cords of thepita, and a couple of knives.

“On arriving at the bank, she looked anxiously over. The caïman was still there; and she turned, and stood for a moment as if considering what to do. Her mind was soon made up; and, bending forward, she thrust the spear lengthwise through what remained of her child’s body! It was a fearful act, but the feeling of revenge was strong within her. She next caught the blade of the spear—now red with blood—and placing the knives lengthwise—so that they might serve as barbs—tied them firmly upon it with thepitacord. Close up to these she pushed the mangled body, and then looped the lasso tightly to the shaft of the spear. The other end she made fast to the trunk of a guava tree—for she well knew that her own strength would avail but little against such a monster as the caïman.

“When all was ready she poised the shaft, and flung spear, body, and all, into the water. Then taking the rope in her hand, she crouched behind the bushes to await the result.

“She had not long to wait. The reptile, thirsting for more blood, saw the tempting morsel; and, darting forward, seized it in his huge jaws, crushing it in the act. The woman remained motionless, biding her time.

“The caïmans do not masticate their food. Their teeth are not formed for that. They are only made for seizing; and the tongue—which they cannot extend forward—only serves to assist them in swallowing. In a few moments the body had disappeared down the capacious throat of the monster.The Indian Mother and CaimanSeeing this, the woman suddenly sprang to her feet, and dragged violently upon the rope, and the next moment a wild scream announced that she had succeeded in her intentions. The barbed blades had taken hold, and the caïman was secured!

“Finding himself thus caught, the huge reptile dived to the bottom, then rose again, bellowing loudly, and lashing the water into foam, the blood all the while running from his jaws and nostrils. At intervals, he would rush from point to point—until suddenly checked by the strong raw-hide lasso—making the tree shake with his great strength; and this he did for a long while. His struggles at length grew fainter, and more feeble, and he lay motionless in the water. Throughout all this scene the mother sat upon the bank of the river, at times in deep silence and dejected, while at intervals her face would light up with a vengeful expression as she cast her eyes upon the monster that had robbed her of her child.

“At length the gallop of a horse roused her from her reverie. She looked around. It was her husband!

“The melancholy tale was soon told; and shortly after was carried to those that dwelt nearest them. The grief was general; and the sympathy that followed caused a general rising throughout the neighbourhood; and for several days afterwards a war of extermination was waged against the caïmans.

“This, brothers,” said Lucien, “is a true narrative; and, in fact, it is only a year or two since the painful incident occurred.”

“And a painful incident it was,” cried Basil, with some excitement. “Thunder! it makes one hate those monsters so I feel like having a shot at one this very moment; besides I want a tooth for a powder-charger;” and as he said this, he took up his rifle, and stepped out to the water’s edge. None of the alligators appeared to be within range at the moment, though dozens of them were seen moving about on the bayou.

“Hold, brother!” shouted François. “Have patience a little, and I’ll bring them near enough. Place yourself in ambush, while I call them.”

Now one of François’ accomplishments was an unusual talent for mimicry. He could imitate everything, from the crowing of a cock to the bellowing of a bull, and so naturally as to deceive even the animals themselves. Running down towards the bank, he crouched behind some yucca-bushes, and commenced whining and barking like a young puppy. Basil also concealed himself among the bushes.

In a few seconds, several alligators were seen swimming over the bayou, coming from all sides at once. They were not long in reaching the bank where François lay concealed, and foremost of all a large male, throwing up his snout, crawled out of the water. He was calculating, no doubt, on making a meal of something; but was doomed to disappointment, and worse than that, for the sharp crack of Basil’s rifle rang upon the air, and the hideous reptile rolled over in the mud; and, after sprawling about for a while, lay motionless. He was quite dead, as the well-aimed rifle had sent a bullet right into his eye.

Basil and François now showed themselves—as they did not care to waste their ammunition by shooting any more—and the rest of the alligators, seeing them, swam off faster than they had come. By the aid of Lucien’s hatchet, the largest teeth were knocked out of the jaws of the one that had been killed; and the horrid carcass was left where it lay, to feed the wolves and vultures, or anything else that chose to make a meal of it.

After cooking a pot of coffee and a venison-steak for supper, our adventurers spread their buffalo-robes within the tent, and went to rest for the night.

Next morning they were astir by daybreak; and after breakfasting heartily, they saddled their horses, and resumed their journey.

Chapter Ten.The Food of the Silkworm.After leaving Bayou Crocodile, our young hunters travelled due west, over the prairies of Opelousas. They did not expect to fall in with buffalo on these great meadows. No. The bison had long since forsaken the pastures of Opelousas, and gone far westward. In his place thousands of long horned cattle roamed over these plains; but these, although wild enough, belonged to owners, and were all marked and tended by mounted herdsmen. There were white settlements upon the prairies of Opelousas, but our adventurers did not go out of their way to visit them. Their purpose was to get far beyond; and they did not wish to lose time.They crossed numerous bayous and rivers, generally running southward into the Mexican Gulf. The shallow ones they forded, while those that were too deep for fording, they swam over upon their horses. They thought nothing of that—for their horses, as well as the mule Jeanette and the dog Marengo, were all trained to swim like fishes.After many days’ travel they reached the banks of the river Sabine, which divides Louisiana from Texas, then a part of the Mexican territory. The face of the country was here very different from most of that they had passed over. It was more hilly and upland; and the vegetation had altogether changed. The great dark cypress had disappeared, and pines were more abundant. The forests were lighter and more open.There was a freshet in the Sabine; but they swam across it, as they had done other rivers, and halted to encamp upon its western bank. It was still only a little after noon, but as they had wet their baggage in crossing, they resolved to remain by the river for the rest of the day. They made their camp in an open space in the midst of a grove of low trees. There were many open spaces, for the trees stood wide apart, and the grove looked very much like a deserted orchard. Here and there a tall magnolia raised its cone-shaped summit high above the rest, and a huge trunk of one of these, without leaves or branches, appeared at some distance, standing like an old ruined tower.The ground was covered with flowers of many kinds. There were blue lupins and golden helianthi. There were malvas and purple monardas, and flowers of the cotton-rose, five inches in diameter. There were blossoms of vines, and creeping plants, that twined around the trees, or stretched in festoons from one to another—the cane-vine with its white clusters, and the raccoon grape, whose sweet odours perfumed the air; but by far the most showy were the large blossoms of the bignonia, that covered the festoons with their trumpet-shaped corollas, exhibiting broad surfaces of bright scarlet.In the midst of these flowers our hunters pitched camp, picketing their animals, and putting up their tent as usual.The sun was shining brightly, and they proceeded to spread their wet robes and blankets.“It strikes me,” said Lucien, after they had completed their arrangements for camping, “that we have halted on the site of an old Indian town.”“Why do you think so?” asked Basil.“Why, I notice these heaps of rubbish here that are covered with weeds and briars. They are Indian graves, or piles of decayed logs where houses once stood. I can tell from the trees, too. Look around! do you see anything peculiar in these trees?”“Nothing,” replied Basil and François together. “Nothing, except that they are mostly small and low.”“Do you not observe anything odd in their species?”“No,” said Basil. “I think I have seen them all before. There are mulberry-trees, and black walnuts, and Chicasaw plums, and pawpaws, and Osage orange, and shell-bark hickories, and pecans, and honey-locusts. I see no others except vines, and those great magnolias. I have seen all these trees before.”“Yes,” returned Lucien, “but have you ever observed them all growing together in this way?”“Ah! that is a different affair: I believe not.”“Because it is from that fact,” continued Lucien, “that I am led to believe this spot was once the seat of an Indian settlement. These trees, or others that produced them, have been planted here, and by the Indians.”“But, brother Luce,” interposed François, “I never heard that the Indians of these parts made such settlements as this must have been. These low woods extend down the river for miles. They must have had a large tract under cultivation.”“I think,” replied Lucien, “the Indians who at present inhabit this region never planted these trees. It is more likely a settlement of the ancient nation of the Natchez.”“The Natchez! Why, that is the name of a town on the Mississippi, but I did not know there were Indians of that name.”“Neither are there now; but there once was a very extensive tribe so called who occupied the whole territory of Louisiana. It is said that, like the Mexicans and Peruvians, they had made some progress in civilisation, and knew how to weave cloth and cultivate the soil. They are now an extinct race.”“How came that about?”“No one can tell. Some of the old Spanish authors say that they were destroyed by Indians from South America. This story, however, is very absurd—as is, indeed, most of what has been written by these same old Spanish authors, whose books read more like the productions of children than of reasoning men. It is far more likely that the Natchez were conquered by the Creeks and Chicasaws, who came from the south-west of their country; and that the remnant of their tribe became blended with and lost among the conquerors. In my opinion, this is how they have come to be extinct. Why, then, should not this be one of their ancient settlements, and these trees the remains of their orchards, cultivated by them for their fruits and other uses?”“Butwemake but little use of such trees,” remarked François.“What’s that you say?” exclaimed Basil. “You, François, who every year eat such quantities of shell-bark nuts, and pecans, and red mulberries, too!—you who suck persimmons like a ’possum!—no use, eh?”“Well, that’s true enough,” rejoined François, “but still we do not cultivate these trees for their fruits—we find them in the woods, growing naturally.”“Because,” interrupted Lucien, “we have the advantage of the Indians. We understand commerce, and get other and better sorts of fruits from all parts of the world. We have cereals, too, such as wheat and rice, and many kinds which they had not; we can therefore do without these trees. With the Indians it was different. It is true they had the Indian corn or maize-plant (Zea maïz), but, like other people, they were fond of variety; and these trees afforded them that. The Indian nations who lived within the tropics had variety enough. In fact, no people without commerce could have been better off in regard to fruit-bearing plants and trees than the Aztecs, and other tribes of the South. The Natchez, however, and those in the temperate zone, had their trees and plants as well—such as those we see before us—and from these they drew both necessary food, and luxurious fruits and beverages. Indeed the early colonists did the same; and many settlers in remote places make use to this day of these spontaneous productions of Nature.”“Would it not be interesting, Basil,” said François, appealing to his elder brother, “if Lucien would give a botanical description of all these trees, and tell us their uses? He knows all that.”“Yes,” replied Basil, “I should like to hear it.”“That I shall do with pleasure,” said Lucien. “Not, however, abotanicaldescription, according to the sense of the Linnean school, as that would weary you soon enough, without adding much to your stock of information. I shall only state what I know of their properties and uses; and I may remark that there is not a tree or plant that is not intended for some use in the economy of Nature. If botanists had spent their time in trying to discover these uses, instead of wasting it in idle classifications, mankind would have been more enriched by their labours.“Let us begin, then, with the mulberry-tree, as there are many of them growing around. Were I to tell you all about this valuable tree, I should occupy a day or more. I shall only state those facts about it that are most interesting.“The mulberry-trees form the genusmorus—for this was the name by which they were known to the ancient Greeks. Of this genus there are several well-known species. No doubt there may be other species growing in wild countries, and yet unknown or undescribed by botanists; and this remark applies as well to other trees, for every day we hear of new varieties being discovered by enterprising explorers.“First, then, comes the white mulberry (Morus alia). It is the most important species yet known. This you will readily admit when I tell you that from it comes all our silk—spun out of it by the silkworm (Bombyx mori). It is called white mulberry on account of the colour of its fruit, which, however, is not always white, but sometimes of a purple or black colour. Now it would be difficult to give an exact description of a white mulberry-tree; for, like the apple and pear trees, there are many varieties of it produced from the same seeds, and also by difference of soil and climate. It is a small tree, however, rarely growing over forty feet high, with thick leaves and numerous branches. The leaves are the most important part of it—for it is upon these the silkworms feed, spinning their fine threads out of the milky juice, which in its properties resembles the juice of the caoutchouc tree. It is true that the silkworm will feed upon the other species of mulberries, and also upon slippery elms, figs, lettuce, beets, endive, and many kinds of leaves besides; but the silk made from all these is of an inferior quality; and even the varieties of the white mulberry itself produce different qualities of this beautiful material.“This tree has other uses. Its wood is compact and heavy, weighing forty-four pounds to the cubic foot. In France it is much used in turnery; and wine-casks are made from it, as it gives to white wines an agreeable flavour of violets. Vine-props and fences are made from its branches; and out of its bark—by a process which I have not time to describe—a cloth can be manufactured almost as fine as silk itself. The fruit of the white mulberry—where it grows in warm climates—is very good to eat, and makes an excellent syrup.“The white mulberry, it is supposed, first came from China, where it is still found growing wild; and the Chinese first cultivated it for feeding silkworms as early as 2700 years before the Christian era. The tree is now found in every civilised country, growing either as an ornament of the shrubbery, or for the manufacture of silk.“The next species is the black mulberry (Morus nigra), so called on account of the colour of its fruit, which is of a dark purple, nearly black. This kind came originally from Persia, but is now, like the white mulberry, found in all civilised countries. It is cultivated more for ornament and shade than for feeding silkworms; though it is put to this use in some parts, especially in cold climates, where the other species does not thrive. They are easily distinguished from each other—the bark of the black being much rougher and darker. The wood of the latter is not so firm nor heavy as the white, but it is also durable, and is used in England for hoops, wheels, and ribs of small vessels. In Spain, Italy, and Persia, they prefer the leaves of the black for feeding the silkworm. They are also eaten by cattle, sheep, and goats. The roots when prepared are used as a vermifuge. The fruit has a pleasant aromatic taste; and is eaten both raw and in preserves, or mixed with cider makes an agreeable drink. The Greeks distil a clear weak brandy out of them; and in France they make a wine from these mulberries—which must be drunk while it is new, as it soon turns to vinegar. This fruit is good for fevers and rheumatisms; and it is much sought after by birds and all kinds of poultry, who devour it greedily.“So much for the white and black mulberry-tree. We now come to the third species, the red (Morus rubra).“That is the red before your face,” continued Lucien, pointing to the trees, which he had already designated. “It is so called from the fruit, which, as you know, are of a dark red colour, and resemble red raspberries more than anything in the world. Some of these trees, you see, are nearly seventy feet in height, though it usually does not reach so high. You notice the leaves. The are heart-shaped, many of them ten inches long, and nearly as broad as long. They are dark green and rough, and for feeding the silkworm quite useless where the white mulberry grows. They form a delightful shade, however; and this is one of the uses of this beautiful tree. The fruit, too, is, in my opinion—and I think François will agree with me—quite equal to the best raspberries. As for the wood, it is much used in the dockyards of the Southern states. It is of a pale lemon colour; and is considered more durable for trenails than any other—that of the locust excepted.“The red mulberry, like the white and black species, runs into several varieties, differing considerably from each other.“There is still a fourth species of this genus, called the paper mulberry (Morus papyrifera). This, however, has been separated by botanists into another genus; but it is worth a word here, as it is a very curious and valuable tree, or, rather, a large shrub, for it does not grow so tall as either of the other three. It is a native of China, Japan, and the islands of the Pacific Ocean; but, like the others, it is cultivated for ornament both in Europe and America. Its fruit, which is of a scarlet colour, is globe-shaped, and not oblong, as that of the true mulberries; and this is one reason why it has been separated into a genus by itself. Its leaves are of no use for silk-making, but they make excellent food for cattle; and as the tree grows rapidly, and carries such large bunches of leaves, some people have said that it would yield better than grass, and should be cultivated for pasture. I do not know whether this has been tried yet. The most interesting part of the paper mulberry is its bark, which is used in the manufacture of paper both in China and Japan. The beautiful India paper used for engravings is made from it, and so, too, is the fine white cloth worn by the natives of the Society Islands, and which so much astonished Europeans when they first saw it. It would be interesting to detail the process of manufacturing this cloth as well as the paper, but it would take up too much of our time at present.“There is another genus of trees which resembles the mulberries very much. They are valuable for their wood, which produces a fine yellow dye, known by the name of ‘fustic-wood.’ The tree that produces the best of this dye is theMorus tinctoria, and grows in the West Indies and tropical America; but there is a species found in the southern United States, of an inferior kind, which produces the ‘bastard fustic’ of commerce.“So much, then, for the mulberry-tree; but I fear, brothers, I have left but little time to describe the others.”“Oh! plenty of time,” said Basil; “we have nothing else to do. We are better learning from you than rambling idly about; and upon my word, Luce, you make me begin to take an interest in botany.”“Well, I am glad of that,” rejoined Lucien, “for I hold it to be a science productive of much good, not only on account of its utility in the arts and manufactures, but to the mind of the student himself; for, in my belief, it has a refining influence.”And Lucien was about to continue his description of the trees, when a series of incidents occurred which put an end to the conversation, at least upon that subject.These incidents are recorded in the chapter which follows.

After leaving Bayou Crocodile, our young hunters travelled due west, over the prairies of Opelousas. They did not expect to fall in with buffalo on these great meadows. No. The bison had long since forsaken the pastures of Opelousas, and gone far westward. In his place thousands of long horned cattle roamed over these plains; but these, although wild enough, belonged to owners, and were all marked and tended by mounted herdsmen. There were white settlements upon the prairies of Opelousas, but our adventurers did not go out of their way to visit them. Their purpose was to get far beyond; and they did not wish to lose time.

They crossed numerous bayous and rivers, generally running southward into the Mexican Gulf. The shallow ones they forded, while those that were too deep for fording, they swam over upon their horses. They thought nothing of that—for their horses, as well as the mule Jeanette and the dog Marengo, were all trained to swim like fishes.

After many days’ travel they reached the banks of the river Sabine, which divides Louisiana from Texas, then a part of the Mexican territory. The face of the country was here very different from most of that they had passed over. It was more hilly and upland; and the vegetation had altogether changed. The great dark cypress had disappeared, and pines were more abundant. The forests were lighter and more open.

There was a freshet in the Sabine; but they swam across it, as they had done other rivers, and halted to encamp upon its western bank. It was still only a little after noon, but as they had wet their baggage in crossing, they resolved to remain by the river for the rest of the day. They made their camp in an open space in the midst of a grove of low trees. There were many open spaces, for the trees stood wide apart, and the grove looked very much like a deserted orchard. Here and there a tall magnolia raised its cone-shaped summit high above the rest, and a huge trunk of one of these, without leaves or branches, appeared at some distance, standing like an old ruined tower.

The ground was covered with flowers of many kinds. There were blue lupins and golden helianthi. There were malvas and purple monardas, and flowers of the cotton-rose, five inches in diameter. There were blossoms of vines, and creeping plants, that twined around the trees, or stretched in festoons from one to another—the cane-vine with its white clusters, and the raccoon grape, whose sweet odours perfumed the air; but by far the most showy were the large blossoms of the bignonia, that covered the festoons with their trumpet-shaped corollas, exhibiting broad surfaces of bright scarlet.

In the midst of these flowers our hunters pitched camp, picketing their animals, and putting up their tent as usual.

The sun was shining brightly, and they proceeded to spread their wet robes and blankets.

“It strikes me,” said Lucien, after they had completed their arrangements for camping, “that we have halted on the site of an old Indian town.”

“Why do you think so?” asked Basil.

“Why, I notice these heaps of rubbish here that are covered with weeds and briars. They are Indian graves, or piles of decayed logs where houses once stood. I can tell from the trees, too. Look around! do you see anything peculiar in these trees?”

“Nothing,” replied Basil and François together. “Nothing, except that they are mostly small and low.”

“Do you not observe anything odd in their species?”

“No,” said Basil. “I think I have seen them all before. There are mulberry-trees, and black walnuts, and Chicasaw plums, and pawpaws, and Osage orange, and shell-bark hickories, and pecans, and honey-locusts. I see no others except vines, and those great magnolias. I have seen all these trees before.”

“Yes,” returned Lucien, “but have you ever observed them all growing together in this way?”

“Ah! that is a different affair: I believe not.”

“Because it is from that fact,” continued Lucien, “that I am led to believe this spot was once the seat of an Indian settlement. These trees, or others that produced them, have been planted here, and by the Indians.”

“But, brother Luce,” interposed François, “I never heard that the Indians of these parts made such settlements as this must have been. These low woods extend down the river for miles. They must have had a large tract under cultivation.”

“I think,” replied Lucien, “the Indians who at present inhabit this region never planted these trees. It is more likely a settlement of the ancient nation of the Natchez.”

“The Natchez! Why, that is the name of a town on the Mississippi, but I did not know there were Indians of that name.”

“Neither are there now; but there once was a very extensive tribe so called who occupied the whole territory of Louisiana. It is said that, like the Mexicans and Peruvians, they had made some progress in civilisation, and knew how to weave cloth and cultivate the soil. They are now an extinct race.”

“How came that about?”

“No one can tell. Some of the old Spanish authors say that they were destroyed by Indians from South America. This story, however, is very absurd—as is, indeed, most of what has been written by these same old Spanish authors, whose books read more like the productions of children than of reasoning men. It is far more likely that the Natchez were conquered by the Creeks and Chicasaws, who came from the south-west of their country; and that the remnant of their tribe became blended with and lost among the conquerors. In my opinion, this is how they have come to be extinct. Why, then, should not this be one of their ancient settlements, and these trees the remains of their orchards, cultivated by them for their fruits and other uses?”

“Butwemake but little use of such trees,” remarked François.

“What’s that you say?” exclaimed Basil. “You, François, who every year eat such quantities of shell-bark nuts, and pecans, and red mulberries, too!—you who suck persimmons like a ’possum!—no use, eh?”

“Well, that’s true enough,” rejoined François, “but still we do not cultivate these trees for their fruits—we find them in the woods, growing naturally.”

“Because,” interrupted Lucien, “we have the advantage of the Indians. We understand commerce, and get other and better sorts of fruits from all parts of the world. We have cereals, too, such as wheat and rice, and many kinds which they had not; we can therefore do without these trees. With the Indians it was different. It is true they had the Indian corn or maize-plant (Zea maïz), but, like other people, they were fond of variety; and these trees afforded them that. The Indian nations who lived within the tropics had variety enough. In fact, no people without commerce could have been better off in regard to fruit-bearing plants and trees than the Aztecs, and other tribes of the South. The Natchez, however, and those in the temperate zone, had their trees and plants as well—such as those we see before us—and from these they drew both necessary food, and luxurious fruits and beverages. Indeed the early colonists did the same; and many settlers in remote places make use to this day of these spontaneous productions of Nature.”

“Would it not be interesting, Basil,” said François, appealing to his elder brother, “if Lucien would give a botanical description of all these trees, and tell us their uses? He knows all that.”

“Yes,” replied Basil, “I should like to hear it.”

“That I shall do with pleasure,” said Lucien. “Not, however, abotanicaldescription, according to the sense of the Linnean school, as that would weary you soon enough, without adding much to your stock of information. I shall only state what I know of their properties and uses; and I may remark that there is not a tree or plant that is not intended for some use in the economy of Nature. If botanists had spent their time in trying to discover these uses, instead of wasting it in idle classifications, mankind would have been more enriched by their labours.

“Let us begin, then, with the mulberry-tree, as there are many of them growing around. Were I to tell you all about this valuable tree, I should occupy a day or more. I shall only state those facts about it that are most interesting.

“The mulberry-trees form the genusmorus—for this was the name by which they were known to the ancient Greeks. Of this genus there are several well-known species. No doubt there may be other species growing in wild countries, and yet unknown or undescribed by botanists; and this remark applies as well to other trees, for every day we hear of new varieties being discovered by enterprising explorers.

“First, then, comes the white mulberry (Morus alia). It is the most important species yet known. This you will readily admit when I tell you that from it comes all our silk—spun out of it by the silkworm (Bombyx mori). It is called white mulberry on account of the colour of its fruit, which, however, is not always white, but sometimes of a purple or black colour. Now it would be difficult to give an exact description of a white mulberry-tree; for, like the apple and pear trees, there are many varieties of it produced from the same seeds, and also by difference of soil and climate. It is a small tree, however, rarely growing over forty feet high, with thick leaves and numerous branches. The leaves are the most important part of it—for it is upon these the silkworms feed, spinning their fine threads out of the milky juice, which in its properties resembles the juice of the caoutchouc tree. It is true that the silkworm will feed upon the other species of mulberries, and also upon slippery elms, figs, lettuce, beets, endive, and many kinds of leaves besides; but the silk made from all these is of an inferior quality; and even the varieties of the white mulberry itself produce different qualities of this beautiful material.

“This tree has other uses. Its wood is compact and heavy, weighing forty-four pounds to the cubic foot. In France it is much used in turnery; and wine-casks are made from it, as it gives to white wines an agreeable flavour of violets. Vine-props and fences are made from its branches; and out of its bark—by a process which I have not time to describe—a cloth can be manufactured almost as fine as silk itself. The fruit of the white mulberry—where it grows in warm climates—is very good to eat, and makes an excellent syrup.

“The white mulberry, it is supposed, first came from China, where it is still found growing wild; and the Chinese first cultivated it for feeding silkworms as early as 2700 years before the Christian era. The tree is now found in every civilised country, growing either as an ornament of the shrubbery, or for the manufacture of silk.

“The next species is the black mulberry (Morus nigra), so called on account of the colour of its fruit, which is of a dark purple, nearly black. This kind came originally from Persia, but is now, like the white mulberry, found in all civilised countries. It is cultivated more for ornament and shade than for feeding silkworms; though it is put to this use in some parts, especially in cold climates, where the other species does not thrive. They are easily distinguished from each other—the bark of the black being much rougher and darker. The wood of the latter is not so firm nor heavy as the white, but it is also durable, and is used in England for hoops, wheels, and ribs of small vessels. In Spain, Italy, and Persia, they prefer the leaves of the black for feeding the silkworm. They are also eaten by cattle, sheep, and goats. The roots when prepared are used as a vermifuge. The fruit has a pleasant aromatic taste; and is eaten both raw and in preserves, or mixed with cider makes an agreeable drink. The Greeks distil a clear weak brandy out of them; and in France they make a wine from these mulberries—which must be drunk while it is new, as it soon turns to vinegar. This fruit is good for fevers and rheumatisms; and it is much sought after by birds and all kinds of poultry, who devour it greedily.

“So much for the white and black mulberry-tree. We now come to the third species, the red (Morus rubra).

“That is the red before your face,” continued Lucien, pointing to the trees, which he had already designated. “It is so called from the fruit, which, as you know, are of a dark red colour, and resemble red raspberries more than anything in the world. Some of these trees, you see, are nearly seventy feet in height, though it usually does not reach so high. You notice the leaves. The are heart-shaped, many of them ten inches long, and nearly as broad as long. They are dark green and rough, and for feeding the silkworm quite useless where the white mulberry grows. They form a delightful shade, however; and this is one of the uses of this beautiful tree. The fruit, too, is, in my opinion—and I think François will agree with me—quite equal to the best raspberries. As for the wood, it is much used in the dockyards of the Southern states. It is of a pale lemon colour; and is considered more durable for trenails than any other—that of the locust excepted.

“The red mulberry, like the white and black species, runs into several varieties, differing considerably from each other.

“There is still a fourth species of this genus, called the paper mulberry (Morus papyrifera). This, however, has been separated by botanists into another genus; but it is worth a word here, as it is a very curious and valuable tree, or, rather, a large shrub, for it does not grow so tall as either of the other three. It is a native of China, Japan, and the islands of the Pacific Ocean; but, like the others, it is cultivated for ornament both in Europe and America. Its fruit, which is of a scarlet colour, is globe-shaped, and not oblong, as that of the true mulberries; and this is one reason why it has been separated into a genus by itself. Its leaves are of no use for silk-making, but they make excellent food for cattle; and as the tree grows rapidly, and carries such large bunches of leaves, some people have said that it would yield better than grass, and should be cultivated for pasture. I do not know whether this has been tried yet. The most interesting part of the paper mulberry is its bark, which is used in the manufacture of paper both in China and Japan. The beautiful India paper used for engravings is made from it, and so, too, is the fine white cloth worn by the natives of the Society Islands, and which so much astonished Europeans when they first saw it. It would be interesting to detail the process of manufacturing this cloth as well as the paper, but it would take up too much of our time at present.

“There is another genus of trees which resembles the mulberries very much. They are valuable for their wood, which produces a fine yellow dye, known by the name of ‘fustic-wood.’ The tree that produces the best of this dye is theMorus tinctoria, and grows in the West Indies and tropical America; but there is a species found in the southern United States, of an inferior kind, which produces the ‘bastard fustic’ of commerce.

“So much, then, for the mulberry-tree; but I fear, brothers, I have left but little time to describe the others.”

“Oh! plenty of time,” said Basil; “we have nothing else to do. We are better learning from you than rambling idly about; and upon my word, Luce, you make me begin to take an interest in botany.”

“Well, I am glad of that,” rejoined Lucien, “for I hold it to be a science productive of much good, not only on account of its utility in the arts and manufactures, but to the mind of the student himself; for, in my belief, it has a refining influence.”

And Lucien was about to continue his description of the trees, when a series of incidents occurred which put an end to the conversation, at least upon that subject.

These incidents are recorded in the chapter which follows.

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