Entering the bayou, the darky exchanges the oars for a thing he calls a paddle. Not as delicately shaped is it as are those you have used about Bar Harbor or on the Adirondack lakes, but it will answer the purpose admirably. You seat yourself in the bow of the boat with your repeater across your knees. There is a fascination in this coasting along the weird, shadowy banks of the tropical creek, with its wealth of beautifully and vividly colored birds. Rounding into the entrance of the lagoon one sees a flock of white heron with wings glistening and flashing in the sunlight as they fly over yonder moss-hung headland; and the brilliant flamingo dyes with a gliding streak of salmon-pink his reflected flight in the shaded, still waters underlying the wild tangle of the wooded shore along which your boat is silently creeping. The skiff rounds the headland.
“Look yaar, sah! Dere he be—ole ’gator on a lorg.”
“Where? where?” is hastily whispered, as you anxiously scan the shore-line for a hundred yards ahead. Nothing, however, meets the inexperienced eye but a wild reach of water-grass, rushes, bog-burrocks and partly submerged fallen tree-trunks.
“Dar, sah! under dat big cypress, ’bout ten rod ahead, and lying on de lorg on de show. Shoot, or he’ll be orf next minit,” hurriedly whispers your “gillie.”
“Ah! there he is.” One holds just back of the fore-shoulder. Bang! “He’s hit!” Then his tail wildly beats the air, and he rolls into the water, which just covers but does not conceal his frantic contortions, only to expose himself to a second shot as he flounders up on some sunken logs. The man has grasped the oars after the first shot, and is rowing rapidly to the spot where the mud and spray are being whirled vigorously about.
“Give him a shot in the neck.” Missed! but no matter.
Now we’re within twenty yards of him. “Stop, Joe; don’t row up any farther. Keep well out of the reach of his tail.” Now, pump another ball at his head or neck to break his cervical vertebræ. “Good!” He rolls off the log, but “rolled off dead, shoo,” says woolly-head, showing his ivories, and getting the long-pointed hook ready for use when the blood-stained waters shall have cleared away.
While the darky busies himself with removing the alligator’s skin, you start off for a shot at a flock of teal which has come dangerously near, and perhaps you also secure some plover. There is every reason to be satisfied as you turn your boat down stream for home. The waters are aglow in the evening sun; not a breath of air is stirring; everywhere calm and quiet. You puff away at your pipe, and as you gaze at the ’gator skin in the bottom of your skiff, you find a use for every tooth and every inch of hide, and you picture to yourself the pleasure you are going to give to numerous friends. It is well to dispose of your cargo in this way before you make your landing, for there at the wharf you will find assembled the usual contingent of pretty girls waiting for the evening steamer and the return of the different boating and shooting parties. Hard-hearted will you have to be to withstand the pleadings for mementos, etc., and there is every probability that when you reach your hotel all that you have left will be the memory of a pleasant afternoon with a ’gator.
THE CRUISE OF THE FROLIC.
BY S. G. W. BENJAMIN.