Thus the negroes talked. They knew a great deal more about Aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the Little Master, and for a very good reason. They had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night—well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the Swamp was closed and locked—locked hard and fast. The owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. Yes, and the Willis Whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. But everything else—even that red joker, the Fox Squirrel—must have a key. Aaron had one, and the White Grunter, and Rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. The Little Master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the Swamp after it was closed and locked at night.
II.
THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP.
However hard and fast the door of the Swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. There is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. That is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:—
That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber.
That which moves, let it swiftly pass.
Else the Swamp will never reveal itself. The sound of one alien footfall is enough. It is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. The Swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,—the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. But those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make—whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim—find the Swamp more friendly. There is no disguise anywhere. The secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer Jack-o'-the-Lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees.
The unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. It is an alien and is shut out. And this is one of the mysteries. If, when the door of the Swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,—have patience. It is a delusion. Underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn—a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand.