Moving at sunrise out of Galveston
harbour we sail into a thick and golden mist, which hides the lowlying shores of Saline Pass and the adjoining country from our sight.
The waves are long and smooth.
A flock of snow-birds flutter in our wake, and swoop with easy undulation on their prey.
A semi-tropical languor lies on every face.
As day comes on the mist clears off, and through the vanishing haze we catch along the shores a fringe of cypress and cotton-wood, with roots in swamp and pool, and branches hung with vegetable filth — the noisome and funereal weed called Spanish moss.
Our vessel, plying between Indianola, in Texas
, and Brashear
, in Louisiana
, skirts two of the rich Gulf States, and connects the port of Galveston
with the river at New Orleans.
She carries few natives,