bank, pushing the lighter with their poles resting against the breast.
Our passage up the Feeder was against a strong current. It was a steady and monotonous paddle through dim light, the canebrake and the boughs reaching over our heads. The air had a dense warmth as though we were in a closed room. Outside on the canal, there was a strong breeze with a decided chill in it; here, we were stifled as if in an oven. And yet, up to this time we had not seen a mosquito in the swamp; and as for snakes and other wild creatures, we had almost made up our minds that they were a tradition or a popular romance.
"How far to the lake?" we asked a magnificent fellow who was poling a timber skiff down the Feeder. He was a giant in black bronze, large-eyed, large-browed, large-motioned—a man born to be distinct among his fellows. He stopped his lighter by holding her against the canes, and he looked with an ample smile at the canoes. We had to repeat our question, when he started as if ashamed.
"Beg yo' pahdon," he said, with a grace that became him; "I didn't hear yo', dem boats is so putty. It's 'bout a mile to de lake. What yo' call dem boats?"
