We were hardly on the river itself before he fell into a state of something like frenzy at the sight of an otter swimming before us, showing its head, and then diving.  He made after it in hot haste, and fired I know not how many times, but all for nothing.  He had killed several before now, he said, but had never been obliged to chase one in this fashion.  Perhaps there was a Jonah in the ship; for though I sympathized with the boy, I sympathized also, and still more warmly, with the otter.  It acted as if life were dear to it, and for aught I knew it had as good a right to live as either the boy or I. No such qualms disturbed me a few minutes later, when, as the boat was grazing the reeds, I espied just ahead a snake lying in wait among them.  I gave the alarm, and the boy looked round.  “Yes,” he said, “a big one, a moccasin,—­a cotton-mouth; but I’ll fix him.”  He pulled a stroke or two nearer, then lifted his oar and brought it down splash; but the reeds broke the blow, and the moccasin slipped into the water, apparently unharmed.  That was a case for powder and shot.  Florida people have a poor opinion of a man who meets a venomous snake, no matter where, without doing his best to kill it.  How strong the feeling is my boatman gave me proof within ten minutes after his failure with the cotton-mouth.  He had pulled out into the middle of the river, when I noticed a beautiful snake, short and rather stout, lying coiled on the water.  Whether it was an optical illusion I cannot say, but it seemed to me that the creature lay entirely above the surface,—­as if it had been an inflated skin rather than a live snake.  We passed close by it, but it made no offer to move, only darting out its tongue as the boat slipped past.  I spoke to the boy, who at once ceased rowing.

“I think I must go back and kill that fellow,” he said.

“Why so?” I asked, with surprise, for I had looked upon it simply as a curiosity.

“Oh, I don’t like to see it live.  It’s the poisonousest snake there is.”

As he spoke he turned the boat:  but the snake saved him further trouble, for just then it uncoiled and swam directly toward us, as if it meant to come aboard.  “Oh, you’re coming this way, are you?” said the boy sarcastically.  “Well, come on!” The snake came on, and when it got well within range he took up his fishing-rod (with hooks at the end for drawing game out of the reeds and bonnets), and the next moment the snake lay dead upon the water.  He slipped the end of the pole under it and slung it ashore.  “There! how do you like that?” said he, and he headed the boat upstream again.  It was a “copper-bellied moccasin,” he declared, whatever that may be, and was worse than a rattlesnake.

On the river, as in the creek, we were continually exploring bays and inlets, each with its promising patch of bonnets.  Nearly every such place contained at least one Florida gallinule; but where were the “purples,” about which we kept talking,—­the “royal purples,” concerning whose beauty my boy was so eloquent?