I was
carrying a sprig of it in my hand when I met a negro. "What is this?" I
asked. "I dunno, sir." "Isn't it papaw?" "No, sir, that ain't papaw;"
and then, as if he had just remembered something, he added, "That's dog
banana."
Oftener than anywhere else I resorted to the shore of the lake,--to the
one small part of it, that is to say, which was at the same time easily
reached and comparatively unfrequented. There--going one day farther
than usual--I found myself in the borderland of a cypress swamp. On one
side was the lake, but between me and it were cypress-trees; and on the
other side was the swamp itself, a dense wood growing in stagnant black
water covered here and there with duckweed or some similar growth: a
frightful place it seemed, the very abode of snakes and everything evil.
Stories of slaves hiding in cypress swamps came into my mind. It must
have been cruel treatment that drove them to it! Buzzards flew about my
head, and looked at me. "He has come here to die," I imagined them
saying among themselves. "No one comes here for anything else. Wait a
little, and we will pick his bones." They perched near by, and, not to
lose time, employed the interval in drying their wings, for the night
had been showery. Once in a while one of them shifted his perch with an
ominous rustle. They were waiting for me, and were becoming impatient.
"He is long about it," one said to another; and I did not wonder.
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