it. In its physical aspect it was a treacherous swamp and
quagmire filled with every plant, animal, and human danger known
in the worst of such locations in the Central States.

"A rod inside the swamp on a road leading to an oil well we mired
to the carriage hubs. I shielded my camera in my arms and before
we reached the well I thought the conveyance would be torn to
pieces and the horse stalled. At the well we started on foot, Mr.
Porter in kneeboots, I in waist-high waders. The time was late
June; we forced our way between steaming, fetid pools, through
swarms of gnats, flies, mosquitoes, poisonous insects, keeping a
sharp watch for rattlesnakes. We sank ankle deep at every step,
and logs we thought solid broke under us. Our progress was a
steady succession of prying and pulling each other to the
surface. Our clothing was wringing wet, and the exposed parts of
our bodies lumpy with bites and stings. My husband found the
tree, cleared the opening to the great prostrate log, traversed
its unspeakable odours for nearly forty feet to its farthest
recess, and brought the baby and egg to the light in his
leaf-lined hat.

"We could endure the location only by dipping napkins in
deodorant and binding them over our mouths and nostrils. Every
third day for almost three months we made this trip, until Little
Chicken was able to take wing. Of course we soon made a road to
the tree, grew accustomed to the disagreeable features of the
swamp and contemptuously familiar with its dangers, so that I
worked anywhere in it I chose with other assistance; but no trip
was so hard and disagreeable as the first. Mr. Porter insisted
upon finishing the Little Chicken series, so that `deserve' is a