By Grace E. King
It is really not much， the story； it is only the arrangement ofit， as we would say of our dresses and our drawing-rooms.
It began with the dawn， of course； and the skiff for ourvoyage， silvered with dew， waiting in the mist for us， as if ithad floated down in a cloud from heaven to the bayou. Whenrepeated， this sounds like poor poetry； but that is the way onethinks at day dawn， when the dew is yet， as it were， upon ourbrains， and our ideas are still half dreams， and our wakinghearts， alas！ as innocent as waking babies playing with theirtoes.
Our oars waked the waters of the bayou， as motionless as asleeping snake under its misty covert—to continue the poeticallanguage or thought. The ripples ran frightened and shiveringinto the rooty thicknesses of the sedge-grown banks， startlingthe little birds bathing there into darting to the nearest， highestrush-top， where， without losing their hold on their swaying，balancing perches， they burst into all sorts of incoherent songs，in their excitement to divert attention from the near-hiddennests： bird mothers are so much like women mothers！
It soon became day enough for the mist to rise. The eyes thatsaw it ought to be able to speak to tell fittingly about it.
Not all at once， nor all together， but a thinning， a lifting， abreaking， a wearing away； a little withdrawing here， a littlewithdrawing there； and now a peep， and now a peep； a bridelifting her veil to her husband！ Blue！ White！ Lilies！ Blue lilies！
White lilies！ Blue and white lilies！ And still blue and whitelilies！ And still！ And still！ Wherever the veil lifted， still andalways the bride！
Not in clumps and bunches， not in spots and patches， not inbanks， meadows， acres， but in—yes； for still it lifted beyondand beyond and beyond； the eye could not touch the limit ofthem， for the eye can touch only the limit of vision； and thelilies filled the whole sea-marsh， for that is the way springcomes to the sea-marshes.
The sedge-roots might have been unsightly along the water’sedge， but there were morning-glories， all colors， all shades—oh， such morning-glories as we of the city never see！ Our citymorning-glories must dream of them， as we dream of angels.
Only God could be so lavish！ Dropping from the tall spearheadsto the water， into the water， under the water. And then，the reflection of them， in all their colors， blue， white， pink，purple， red， rose， violet！
To think of an obscure little Acadian bayou waking to flowthe first thing in the morning not only through banks of newblownmorning-glories， but sown also to its depths with suchreflections as must make it think itself a bayou in heaven，instead of in Paroisse St. Martin. Perhaps that is the reasonthe poor poets think themselves poets， on account of thebeautiful things that are only reflected into their minds fromwhat is above？ Besides the reflections， there were alligatorsin the bayou， trying to slip away before we could see them，and watching us with their stupid， senile eyes， sometimesfrom under the thickest， prettiest flowery bowers； and turtlessplashing into the water ahead of us； and fish （silver-sidedperch）， looking like reflections themselves， floating throughthe flower reflections， nibbling their breakfast.
Our bayou had been running through swamp only a littlemore solid than itself； in fact， there was no solidity but whatcame from the roots of grasses. Now， the banks began toget firmer， from real soil in them. We could see cattle in thedistance， up to their necks in the lilies， their heads and sharppointedhorns coming up and going down in the blue andwhite. Nothing makes cattle’s heads appear handsomer， withthe sun just rising far， far away on the other side of them. Thesea-marsh cattle turned loose to pasture in the lush springbeauty—turned loose in Elysium！
But the land was only partly land yet， and the cattle stillcattle to us. The rising sun made revelations， as our bayoucarried us through a drove in their Elysium， or it might havealways been an Elysium to us. It was not all pasturage， allenjoyment. The rising and falling feeding head was entirelydifferent， as we could now see， from the rising and fallingagonized head of the bogged—the buried alive. It is well thatthe lilies grow taller and thicker over the more treacherousplaces； but， misery！ misery！ Not much of the process wasconcealed from us， for the cattle have to come to the bayoufor water. Such a splendid black head that had just yieldedbreath！ The wide-spreading ebony horns thrown back amongthe morning-glories， the mouth open from the last sigh， theglassy eyes staring straight at the beautiful blue sky above，where a ghostly moon still lingered， the velvet neck ridgedwith veins and muscles， the body already buried in black ooze.
And such a pretty red-and-white-spotted heifer， lying on herside， opening and shutting her eyes， breathing softly in meekresignation to her horrible calamity！ And， again， another onewas plunging and battling in the act of realizing her doom：
a fierce， furious， red cow， glaring and bellowing at the soft，yielding inexorable abysm under her， the bustards settling afaroff， and her own species browsing securely just out of reach.
They understand that much， the sea-marsh cattle， to keepout of reach of the dead combatant. In the delirium of anguish，relief cannot be distinguished from attack， and rescue of thevictim has been proved to mean goring of the rescuer.
The bayou turned from it at last， from our beautiful lilyworld about which our pleasant thoughts had ceased to floweven in bad poetry.
Our voyage was for information， which might be obtained ata certain habitation； if not there， at a second one， or surely at athird and most distant settlement.
The bayou narrowed into a canal， then widened into a bayouagain， and the low， level swamp and prairie advanced intowoodland and forest. Oak-trees began， our beautiful oaktrees！
