to the water; the river had grown dark like the stream from a dye-works. "See," he said, "that is the juniper water of the Dismal Swamp."
It was singular that neither the captain nor his men could tell anything about the swamp. Their knowledge ended at the lock. This is characteristic of the whole neighboring population. Richmond knows as little about the swamp as Boston; even Norfolk and Suffolk know little more.
"All I know," said the captain, "is that there are lots of snakes in there."
"And bears," says another.
"And panthers," says a third, and so on, and so on, while each one gave a friendly hand to launch the canoes as we closed to a wharf near the lock, where about thirty colored men were loading a schooner with lumber and bundled shingles of juniper and cypress.
"If I were going in there, I'd keep my Smith-and-Wesson handy," said the second hand on the tug, as we touched the shore. Before we could ask the meaning of the unpleasant hint (which we found to be a libel on the swamp), the sturdy little steamer had backed out, and was whistling "Good-by."
The crowd of colored workmen stopped and stared at our heap of baggage, and at the hand-
