Now it subsides into stillness, broken only by the splashing
of an alligator, whose sports call forth a rapturous shout.
After some three hours' sailing the barge nears a jut of rising
ground on the left bank. Close by it is a grove of noble old pines,
in the centre of which stands a dilapidated brick building, deserted
for some cause not set forth on the door: it is a pretty, shaded
retreat-a spot breathing of romance. To the right are broad lagoons
stretching far into the distance; their dark waters, beneath thick
cypress, presenting the appearance of an inundated grove. The
cypress-trees hang their tufted tops over the water's surface,
opening an area beneath studded with their trunks, like rude columns
supporting a panoply of foliage.
The barge stops, the party land; the shrill music, still dancing
through the thick forest, re-echoes in soft chimes as it steals
back upon the scene. Another minute, and we hear the voices of Daddy
Bob and Harry, Dandy and Enoch: they are exchanging merry laughs,
shouting in great good-nature, directing the smaller fry, who are
fagging away at the larder, sucking the ice, and pocketing the
lemons. "Dat ain't just straight, nohow: got de tings ashore, an' ye
get 'e share whin de white folk done! Don' make 'e nigger ob
yourse'f, now, old Boss, doing the ting up so nice," Daddy says,
frowning on his minions. A vanguard have proceeded in advance to
take possession of the deserted house; while Aunt Rachel, with her
cort?ge of feminines, is fussing over "young missus.
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