(unlabelled) As the guide finished his charming description of the southern nightingale, he pointed out to them the marsh. It was a strange-looking place, and Ethelda asked many questions concerning it. Why was it dangerous to cross? Why must they skirt the marsh and go around it, as they were doing? It was much the shorter way to cut right across it, but instead, they walked miles out of their way to reach the other side. Their guide assured them that the marsh was not so charming as it looked. Down amid its dark cypresses, where the jagged palmetto fans and latanier grew, and where the tall rushes and reeds were so fine that, swaying softly under the breeze, they looked like moving water, but water dyed in emerald and topaz tints—lurked many dangers. Rattlesnakes and toads and deadly insects made it their home, and the ground was all a quagmire, so that stepping on it they would sink deep in mud and slime, and perhaps die there.
 
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“Oh,” said the Princess, “how awful! Does nothing nice live there? Those beautiful tiger-lilies and big purple passion-flowers bloom so charmingly, surely there must be something there to enjoy them.”
 
“Well,” answered the guide, “the birds frequently nest there, and the great pelicans and cranes hide in it; but beside them there are only three respectable families that I know of who ever enter it.”
 
“Who are they?” asked Ethelda, deeply interested at once.
 
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“Why, the first family I mean,” replied the Sun messenger, “is the Crayfish family. Deep down in the black slime live this family, who delight in digging and burrowing in the mud. They live in very black dirt, but a happier family it would be hard to find. They are splendid little housekeepers, too, and spend most of their mornings in their own homes, trying to build up and beautify their houses, and they never meddle with any one else. Any time of day you can see their bright eyes peering out of their mud windows wonderingly. The Crayfish babies are very tiny, and are carefully and tenderly watched. They never are allowed to play with others, and cannot leave their mother’s side a single minute until they are five years old. Indeed, they hold on to her sides until that age. By that time they are considered grown, and can care for themselves and choose their own friends. On this account, perhaps, the Crayfishes don’t visit much, because with a dozen children clinging to her the mother is hardly a welcome guest anywhere; the Crayfishes have few friends in consequence. The Mud-Turtles, I believe, are about their only callers, and only through them do they occasionally hear of the outside world.”
 
“How comical!” laughed a pretty Moon maiden. “Now tell us about the other families.”
 
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“The head of the other family,” said the guide, “is very interesting indeed. He is a queer little animal called Opossum; he looks like a rat, but is larger than a cat. He spends the day lazily, sleeping among the foliage of trees, or in hollows of their trunks or boughs. His fur is nearly black, but little white patches about his face give him a most wise appearance. He brought his family, consisting of a wife and sixteen small babies, and started housekeeping on the edge of the swamp. The babies are not as big as mice, but they are the sweetest little furry things you ever saw. They cuddle up so nicely together, and just wait to be fed. Of course Mother ’Possum has her hands pretty full watching and caring for sixteen small children, so it devolves on the father to provide food for them; and every night he runs around the country looking for something to eat. He is really a devoted father, but he is not fond of work; and how to feed a wife and sixteen babies without work is a very hard problem to solve. So I am sorry to tell you Mr. ’Possum often steals his food, that being the easiest way to get it, and nothing appeals to him so strongly as a tender young chicken.
 
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“Now, the third family dwelling in the marsh are the Raccoons. Mrs. ’Possum has a great contempt for this same neighbor of hers, and they are not on very friendly terms. Mrs. ’Possum is a splendid housekeeper, but Mrs. Raccoon cares nothing at all about her home. True, she builds her house carefully in the topmost branches of a tree, but having done that, she considers her duty ended, and seldom occupies it. ‘Any old place is good enough to sleep in,’ she says; and just so she can find a spot with water enough to moisten her food before eating it, she is content. Therefore she wanders around, with the little Raccoons, anywhere and everywhere, and when they get tired they just creep under some old log and go to sleep. Of course Mother ’Possum, with her strict ideas of housekeeping, thinks this careless habit no way to live or to bring up children; but whenever Mrs. ’Possum reproaches Mrs. Raccoon with being a slipshod housekeeper and a gadabout, Mrs. Raccoon invariably replies, ‘Have you ever noticed how soft and fine my fur is, and how many beautiful rings I wear on my tail?’—for she is awfully vain. Then she flourishes her tail around, and whisking about, shows off the pretty black and white rings she carries, to the best possible advantage, until Mrs. ’Possum in disgust sends all the little ’Possums scurrying away, fearing lest they become vain and worldly like the Raccoons. But with the exception of the Raccoons and the Crayfishes, the Opossum family own the big yellow and green marsh.”