draped in Spanish moss.
Hollo, what's here?
A bank of sand lies bare and dry under the paddlewheel.
Are we ashore?
Is that white bird a crane ? Are we at sea — is this a phantom ship?
On coming to the fore, I find that we are pushing through a sea-canal, marked off with boles of trees.
This work is seven miles long, and twelve feet deep, running between Marsh Island
and the swamps of Terre Bonne, in Atchafalaya River
, on the eastern bank of which lies the port of Brashear
: a place created out of chaos, by the necessity which has sprung up since the settlement of Texas
for a shorter and safer route from Galveston
to New Orleans than that by way of Pass h
The voyage is reduced by half the time.
By boat and car a man now runs from Galveston
to New Orleans in little more than twenty-four hours.
land or water?
Slush and mud, gutter and pool, basin and drain, all meet in Brashear
; a dismal swamp and fever-den, enclosed on every side with jungle, in which every tree is hung with Spanish moss.
This ghastly parasite clings in cobwebs, of dull mouse-colour, from every branch.
“Observe this weed,” a resident in Brashear