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Show BY PATH AND TKAIL. 43 the village sleeps. My window is open, I can hear the flow of the Urique, and as I listen to its gurgling waters a cock crows across the river. The crow of the cock changes my thoughts which carry me back three years, and bear me to a room of the " seaside cottage " in the negro town of Plymouth, Montserrat, West India Islands. Unable to sleep I am seated at my open window looking out upon the tragic waters of the Caribbean sea. The moon swings three- quarters full in a cloudless sky, the air I breathe brings to me a suspicion of sulphur es caping from the open vents of La Soufriere, the vol canic mount rising to the west and dangerously near the negro village. I can hear the wash of the waves combing the beach and see the " Jumbo lights" in the windows of the negro cabins to remind the ghosts of the dead and the demons of the night that friends are sleeping there. It is 2 o ' clock in the morning, a sepulchral quiet possesses the uncanny place, when the cock crows. Then from out a large hut, down the shore street, there comes a negro well on in years, followed by a young negress, two women and three men. They do not speak, nor shake hands, they exchange no civilities, they separate and dis appear. Who were they? Snake worshipers. Great Britain owns the island and British law prohibits, under penalty, the adoration of the serpent. Stronger than the law of Great Britain is the law of African supersti tion and the fear of the demon that dwells in the white snake, so reverently guarded and fed by the family who live in the hut. Again the cock crows. Where am I? Oh, in Urique. There is no noticeable difference in the crow of the cock the world over. This friendly bird from over the Urique river warns me it is getting late. I must to bed, so, " Good night to Marmion." |