I have little faith in the spell of a snake’s eye, yet for a moment I was held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so coolly before me.  It was lifted a foot out of the grass.  The head upon its lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring.  The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of white upon the throat.  Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales.  It was not a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the rattle-snake.  But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and erect.  There was no fear in the creature’s eye, something rather of aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard.

Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake!  No.  I think, indeed, there are few persons who really do fear snakes.  It is not fear, but nerves.  I have tamed more black-snakes than I have killed.  I should not care a straw if one bit me.  Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so unlocked for as always to be unnerving.  But let a huge one whip about you in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister!  You will be abashed.  I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness.

It was a big snake.  I had not been mistaken in its size.  There is nothing on earth that shrinks as a dead snake; and this one, so far as I know, is still alive; yet, allowing generously for my imagination, I am sure the creature measured six feet.  His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in the ferns behind.  It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the air, an odor like cut cucumbers.

Fully a minute we eyed each other.  Then I took a step forward.  The glittering head rose higher.  Off in the ferns there beat a warning tattoo—­the loud whir of the snake’s tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf.

In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside.  If one thing more than another will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch.  Expecting to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose.  But he did not jump or budge.  He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better his position.

The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of more than one set expression.  Can hate and fear show there?  They certainly can, at least to my imagination.  If ever hate and fear mantled a face, they did this one in the grass.  The sound of the switch only maddened the creature.  He had too long dictated terms in this part of the swale to crawl aside for me.