Lay an egg every day,
And have to go barefoot!”
Geese gobbling; ducks quacking; Guinea hens yelling; pigs squealing—this, before I went to Georgia, I thought something—but it is nothing. Reader, you may have heard the soft serenade of a couple of cats beneath your window, sounding all the louder, because of your anxiety to get to sleep, and the death-like stillness around; but this is nothing.
You have heard the shout of a school set free—the hubbub of a Lowell factory—the clatter of steamboat paddles—the rush of some spit-fire engine and its trains upon a railroad track—the tearing fire of a militia muster, “all together”—which means one after another. All this you may have heard. Nay more—by an effort of fancy, you may put them all together, and, worked one into another by Marmaduke Multiply’s table—crossways, and up and down—and yet you have but a faint idea of the clangor made by the frogs, alligators, whippoorwills, chuck-will’s-widows, and other songsters of a southern swamp, when they set up for a real serenade—all by themselves.
We all know that the Italian orchestras undertake to describe storms, tempests, and battles—shipwrecks, love and murder—by music. If one of the opera companies will go to Okefonoco—listen to the performances there—and come back and give us a good imitation, I engage that they shall make their fortune.
Mr. Southey undertook to tell about the cataract of Lodore, and he attempted to convey some notion of the commotion of the waters by the gushing of his lines, and he succeeded very well; but how can any one put the puffing of alligators into rhyme? Old Homer, I am told, has imitated frogs in Greek—but the thing is scarcely possible in English.
After all I have said, gentle reader, I shall not attempt to describe the songs of the swamps aforesaid. This I must leave to yourself. Suppose that you are in Georgia, or Florida, or Louisiana; suppose that it is sunset, of a summer evening. A swampy thicket is before you; around are gigantic plants, of a thousand forms, and gaudy flowers of many hues; gnats, mosquitoes and gallinippers, fill the air, and sting you at every available point. Fire-flies begin to glitter. On every hand, as the darkness falls, the scene around becomes illuminated with myriads of these fleeting meteors.
A strange, loud sound bursts suddenly from a bush at your very ear, exclaiming, “chuck-will’s-widow!” It is repeated—slowly at first—and then more rapidly. Pretty soon another voice, exclaims, “whippoorwill.” “Confound us! confound us!” says a croaking throat in the mud. “Botheration! botheration!” says one at a distance. “Thief! thief!” cries another. Then fifty voices break out, and run into each other like the notes of a watchman’s rattle. The din rises higher and higher. More voices are added to the chorus, while every one speaks louder and quicker—and ever and anon, the deep voice of the alligator is distinctly heard, betwixt a grunt and guffau—seeming like the notes of the kettledrum, or double bass, to this wonderful concert of birds and reptiles, when all by themselves!
Profane Swearing.—I believe there never was a man who made a fortune by common swearing. It often appears that men pay for swearing, but it seldom happens that they are paid for it. It is not easy to perceive what honor or credit is connected with it. Does any man receive promotion because he is a notable blusterer? Or is any man advanced to dignity because he is expert at profane swearing? Never.