THE
MONTHLY SCRAP BOOK.
THE RATTLE-SNAKE,
An American Tale.
“Lo! the green Serpent, from his dark abode,
Which even imagination fears to tread:
At noon forth issuing, gathers up his train
In orbs immense.”
My residence in Carolina was so short, that I had not an opportunity of entering much into society in Charlestown, and consequently my books and my gun were my principal companions. I had read all the works of Lord Byron, and, after their perusal, I determined to have recourse to Nature, and to study her myself. Having been informed that there was a village about twenty miles from Charlestown, with suitable accommodation, I determined to proceed thither; and, as the woods afforded the promise of good sport, I resolved to walk, and, when a favourable opportunity afforded, to shoot at the wild animals which fortune might place within the range of my fowling-piece. Although I commenced my journey at break of day, my progress was slow, over roads through a sandy soil, and, where the soil was soft, formed by trees laid across, which, however, were less annoying to me than they are generally found to be by those who travel in the carriages of the country.
The trees on either side of the way have a most striking and imposing effect, rising, as they do, to a height that is almost incredible, and, I fear I should be subjected to the imputation of using the
