His parks and his pleasure-grounds are larger than any king’s. Upon my saurian’s house the winds have no power, the rains are only a new delight to him, and the snows he will never see. Regarding fire, as he does not use it as a slave, so he does not fear it as a tyrant.
Thus all the elements are the friends of my alligator’s house. While he sleeps he is being bathed. What glory to awake sweetened and freshened by the sole, careless act of sleep!
Lastly, my saurian has unnumbered mansions, and can change his dwelling as no human house-holder may; it is but a flip of his tail, and lo! he is established in another place as good as the last, ready furnished to his liking.
On and on up the river! We find it a river without banks. The swift, deep current meanders between tall lines of trees; beyond these, on either side, there is water also—a thousand shallow rivulets lapsing past the bases of a multitude of trees.
Along the edges of the stream every tree-trunk, sapling, and stump is wrapped about with a close-growing vine. The edges of the stream are also defined by flowers and water-leaves. The tall blue flags, the lilies sitting on their round lily-pads like white queens on green thrones, the tiny stars and long ribbons of the water-grasses—all these border the river in an [infinite variety] of adornment.
And now, after this day of glory, came a night of glory. Deep down in these shaded lanes it was dark indeed as the night drew on. The stream which had been all day a [girdle of beauty], blue or green, now became a black [band of mystery].
But presently a [brilliant flame flares] out overhead: They have lighted the pine-knots on top of the pilot-house. The fire advances up these dark windings like a brilliant god.
The startled birds suddenly flutter into the light and after an instant of illuminated flight melt into the darkness. From the perfect silence of these short flights one derives a certain [sense of awe].
Now there is a mighty crack and crash: limbs and leaves scrape and scrub along the deck; a little bell tinkles; we stop. In turning a short curve, the boat has run her nose smack into the right bank, and a projecting stump has thrust itself sheer through the starboard side. Out, Dick! Out, Henry! Dick and Henry shuffle forward to the bow, thrust forth their long white pole against a tree-trunk, strain and push and bend to the deck as if they were salaaming the god of night and adversity. Our bow slowly rounds into the stream, the wheel turns and we puff quietly along.