Pushing The Canoe Towards The Sound, And Feeling The Submerged Border Of The Swamp With My Paddle, I Struck The Upland Where It Touched The Water, And Disembarking, Felt My Way Along A Well-Trodden Path To A Little Clearing.

Here a drove of hogs were crowding around their owner, who was scattering kernels of corn about him as he vociferated, "pe-ig - pe-ig - pe-ig - pig - pig - pig." We stood face to face, yet neither could see the face of the other in the darkness.

I told my tale, and asked where I could find a sheltered spot to camp.

"Stranger," slowly replied the Cracker, "my cabin's close at hand. Come home with me. It's a bad night for a man to lay out in; and the niggers would steal your traps if they knew you had anything worth taking. Come with me."

In the tall pines near at hand was a cabin of peeled rails, the chinks between them being stuffed with moss. A roof of cypress shingles kept the rain out. The log chimney, which was plastered with mud, was built outside of the walls and against an end of the rustic-looking structure. The wide-mouthed fireplace sent forth a blaze of light as we entered the poor man's home. I saw in the nicely swept floor, the clean bed-spreads, and the general neatness of the place, the character of Wilson Edge's wife.

"Hog and hominy's our food here in the piny woods," said Mr. Edge, as his wife invited us to the little table; "and we've a few eggs now and then to eat with sweet potatoes, but it's up-hill work to keep the niggers from killing every fowl and animal we have.

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