walls luxuriant vines climb in wild
confusion. What was once the parade-ground is covered by a thick growth
of wiry grass, in which gopher- and crab-holes lay traps for the unwary.
In fact, far from being the forbidding spot it has been painted, Dry
Tortugas seemed to us a veritable garden in the path of the great Gulf
Stream.

On the afternoon of our arrival the Bull Pup was got under way and
headed through a circuitous channel to East Key, off which we came to
anchor about dusk. Blankets and other articles indispensable for a night
on the beach were carried ashore, and camp formed on the edge of the
bay-cedars. East Key comprises about thirty acres of sand, thickly
covered with a low growth of bay-cedar, in which the rude nests of the
noddy are found, while here and there in the undergrowth are great
patches of cactus or prickly pear, affording lurking-places for
innumerable purple-backed crabs of ferocious mien.

"Turklin'," said old Sandy, as we lay stretched on the sand, waiting for
the moon, "is right in de line o' hard wu'k, an' I 'spec's yo' chillun
is a-hankerin' after yo' mudder."

The two children, both hard on thirty, indignantly denied that they had
anything but an extreme fondness for labor.

"Wu'k!" said old Sandy, appealing to us and reaching for a piece of
driftwood to fling at his progeny in case of necessity; "w'y, de coons
of disher generation don' know de meanin' of de word, da's a fac'. How
is it dat yo' don' see no mo' bandy chillun roun' now? Kase dey mammies
don' hev to wu'k. Dey ain't got no call to put de chilluns down. W'y,
chile, I pick cotton 'fore I leave de bre's', da's a fac'. De niggers is
gittin' too sumpchus fo' dar place. Dey try to make outen dey got sense
like white folks. Yo' Rastus, yo'se deacon in de Key Wes' Fustest
Bethel, ain't yo'?"

"'Deed I is," replied that person.

"An' Piffney too, I reckon," continued Sandy.

"Yas, sah," answered Piffney.

"Wal," said the old man, turning to us again, "dere it is. Chuck full o'
'ligion, but w'en dey git in de tight hole like de five-foot dey ain't
got no faith. Old-time l'arnin' say 'tain't no use buckin' 'genst de
debble less yo' full o' faith. All de old-time coons knows dey's coons,
but dese yere free-born darkies got to be white or nuthin'. Yander,"
nodding his head toward Key West, "a couple of dese yere black Conchs
drap in on me an' de ole woman, an' say, 'Uncle Sandy, we'se 'lected yo'
hon'ry member of de Anex Debatin