The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1886-05-09

of the Satilla region ever since the destruction
of La Fleur place. The wavering outlines OF the
legend will not admit of any clearer statement
and yet have in my mind, just beyond the reach
of description. the most touching, and at the
same time the most horrible picture ever con-
jured up by floating suggestions and dlscon-
nected hints. Sweet Marie La Fleur. see ner
face now gacing at me, with strange, sorrowIni
eyes, from the gloomy, moss hung, snadoWy
tanges of those weird semi-tropic groves "A
word. phrase, sketchy bit of the legend, let
fall by some of the many persons who had heard
of it, had now and again shaken into my heart,
as it were, fragrance lingering, lndescrioaDle,
like the bouquet of forgotten but almost re-
membered loves: and joys, and hopes, and
kisses, and, alas. despairs
Sweet Marie La Fleur What was her fatel
know, but cannot quite frame the knowledge
in words. Her pitiful story just evades my
grasp. No imagination can realize the haunt
ing sense of failure (which is just line short Of
success) that worries my mind as strive to find
way to express what elusively and tantalizing-
ly slips away from my faculties Let 1t 60.
Poor Marie La Fleur, vanished like the "snows
of last year" in the old French refrain, has left
an influence sweet as it is subtle In all the
bosky dimness of the Sattilla forests and IN all
the melodious windings of the little river
should be glad to impress upon the readers
mind some touch, matter how vague, OF the
peculiarly isolated life which must have been
led by the jewellers of La Fleur place.
aud of the many dangers with which such a
life was beset about the beginning OF the
present century Still more should i wish
to impart (but how shall IN some dreamy
knowledge of the freedom, the healthfulnsss
and the enhancing charm of the particular spot
where still stands the rotten and moss mantleo
ruin of the rambling, picturesque cabin wherein
Marie La Fleur lived, loved and died. But can
not Everything slips away from me. 1t is like
grasping at smoke, or trying to catch in phial
the fragrant odor of some invisible flower
present, however faithful transcript OF
my own experience in the mystery haunted re-
gion of the Satilla, the region presided over by
the demon of the rusty three-edged knife
Over and over had been told of the inexpli..
cable murders scattered through the space of
three-quarters of century, that had made
the old La Fleur place the dread OF
belated hunters and bewildered cattle
about the charmed spot and escaped The
three-edged knife had done its bloody work I'M
falingly. That cross hilted. rusty old weapon
had become familiar to my eyes, although had
never seen it. Who welded it, Here again
am within a breath Of answering. A batlike
thought just beyond the farthest reach of my
mind. / strain every faculty in vain as one
strains ones memory for lost but almost re-
membered name. Indeed, everyone who had
anything to say about this legend of the Satilla
appeared to feel this peculiar effect of grazing,
if with the finger of the mind, the fullest
knowledge of the subject
Driven to the hilt in victim, the cross hilted
three-e edged knife had been found, so it was said
by several persons at widely separated times
but in each instance it had escaped mysteriously
from the possession of the finder to again pursue
its bloody work along the Satilla. tried In
vain to find some one of the individuals who had
seen the weapon, but here again the elements
of tantalizng proximity to my desire took the
place of success. So. too, the exact situation of
La Fleur place was not known by any one of
my informants, though they all spoke Of it as
we'll settled, the best established point On the
Satilla. in fact Almost anybody, they thought
might direct me to it.
In the course of leisurely canoe voyage down
the river / noted several places where panta
tons had existed. but no feature particularly
suggested La Fleur place 1t was early in May,
and was absorbed in botanical studies Never
theless the fascinating fragments of the legend
kept floating on my thought, returning again
and again like snatches Of differentiated
song
| was well armed and had not the slightest
fear, nor did treat the fanciful and disjointed
story with any degree of seriousness, but 1t had
slipped into my imagination. where turned it
about and toyed with it in that dreamy way so
dear to us all at times. The rusty knife. by
some occult trick of fancy, performed all
sorts of grotesque turns for me, until at length
it amused me to connect it with every sound
that broke the silence of the woods and cane
tangles. Each bright winged song bird it
fitted by was dagger blade cutting the air,
every blow delivered by the woodpecker was an
aSSdSSluS deadly turuSG s0fuS w tHo uedrt VI d
victim. Not that these fancies were uppermostin
my mind; they seemed, indeed. to be part of the
dreams always induced by golden May weather,
just as the sound of humm!ng bees and OF soush-
ing wind is a part of 1t. With even more than
my usual activity and alertmess pursued my
plant gathering, and sketching and not making
but not to the exclusion of the continually In
creasing interest in the legend of LaFleur place
and the mysterious knife of the Satilla.
Toward evening one day-and what beautl-
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along with leisurely paddlestrokes down the
low-murmuring river between the walls OF a
dusky, moss-mantled forest. The air was STILL
but not overwarm. or at least noticed no
special sultriness. although the sky glared and
the sun shone all day with fierce splendor For
an hour or two had not seen plant or a flower
possessing any new interest, and so had given
myself over to an absorbing revery. The
woods, which had been so cheerfully noisy with
the songs of birds and the rustic of breeze
stirred foliage, were now absolutely soundless
saving that the liquid plash of my paddle sent
little echoes down the dim aisles, the very phan-
tom Of sweet sounds.
The first vague thrill of something unusual
touched rny nerves as low, heavy, indefinite
sound, like the striking of some sharp instru
ment into non-resonant body, came from
somewhere in the forest | started from my
mood of abstraction and observed at once that
a storm was at hand, though as yet no clouds
were visible. The sky was intensely blue, the
air was OmluOuSly stdEHduts tuo uuShS WHIer-
ness appeared to be waiting in breathess dread.
My first thought was of shelter, and naturally
enough began plying my paddle with all my
skill and power; but the chance of finding place
of safety during storm was very slender in
deed.
Soon enough great black clouds came rolling
I'D the western sky, attended by low. gradual
Embarrassing roar, peculiarly solemn and awe
inspiring. Now puff of wind, laden with that
damp foretaste of the shower, so welcome at
ether times, rustled through the foliage. then a
rafting thunderclap tumbed across the clouds,
and heard the rain coming rhythmically over
the tops of the distant trees.
drove my canoe along, as if impelled by the
storm and it was while going at bird fight speed
that whisked past low, decaying cabin near
the river bank. The glimpse was like a flash,
but in the low doorway of the cabin saw an old
negro man sitting in listless attitude.
checked my fight at once and. turning my
canoe about pulled back and went ashore, glad
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