had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I
only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me--the longest,
ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about
home.

It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken
trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of
the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot
were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and
before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl--then
stirless silence.

I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three
animals, but the lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a
swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of
uncommon size.

The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass.
Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with
a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy
whistle that made me cold--a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin
that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake,
up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head.

I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was
held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so
coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its
lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring.
The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of
white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin,
for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not
a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the
rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and
neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and
erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of
aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard.

Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few
persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have
tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if
one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so
unlocked for as always to be unne