We thank whoever thought up that caption for the recent picture of Albert Lindsay and the captivated beaver since Old Stuff was referred to therein as a "human encyclopedia".
It was rather interesting, in that when Photographer John Carter made an inquiry of Old Stuff as to whether beavers were, or were not indigenous to the Delta country, we were able to assure John that there was once a big enough lot of them in Swan Lake, to the south of us, to build a dam. And, as it turned out, the beaver which prompted the Carter inquiry, and posed for the Carter picture, came from the neighborhood of Swan Lake Itself.
It was not unusual to see those animals in that neighborhood when the current century was in its first decade. Duck-hunters occasionally bagged a beaver and, on one trip down there in Swan Lake, the late Mr. Stanley Henshaw shot an otter.
Swan Lake Duck Club originally embraced several thousand acres of swamps, marshes, and considerable stretches of open water. It was a private club, the membership of which had subscribed funds for the purchase or lease of all that natural duck preserve. As recall the set-up the late Charlie P. Williams was given a lifetime membership in Swan Lake in return for concessions made by his father, Mr. Merritt Williams, and himself, in the use of their land and water which was a part of the preserve. The late Victor Erwin, and his brothers, Ward and Dudley, had similar arrangements with the club owners, and so did Mr. Hugh Foote, of Foote Station, which was the closest railroad point to the clubhouse.
(Mr. Foote was the grandfather of Greenville's author, Shelby Foote.)
The South-bound Riverside passenger train was apt to be carrying a core or more of members of the Swan Lake Duck Club, most any afternoon during duck season, though weekends, then as now, were most popular.
There was a carry-all, drawn by four mules, which met the train at Foote, and hauled the hunters some several- miles eastward to the clubhouse. The road was dirt, and sometimes the going was tough, especially when the carry-all was negotiating the gumbo approach to the lake itself. A part of this road was corduroy, which means the logs were laid, cross-wise, upon it, and naturally was bumpy to the nth degree.
It must have been as late as 1910 before anyone tried the trip to the club by automobile, and even then the chances were slim of making it unless the weather was extremely dry.
The lake was a maze of saw grass, with trails cut through it at intervals, and each trail had a name. The only one of these trail names we remember, at this late day, is "Beaver-Dam", which is fortunate since it earned us the synonym of "human encyclopedia."
The hunters drew lots, the night before, for which trail they would cruise, and they also drew lots for paddlers. The latter were black men who lived and farmed in the neighborhood of Swan Lake and were always available during duck season. A few names we recall are Nat, (also known as Toots) Wilfred, and Bass. Some were better than others at paddling, others excelled in spotting and finding dead ducks, and that was why the hunters drew lots.
The club owned the boats, which were either dug-outs, or factory jobs, and both hunters and paddlers wore either hip boots or wading pants.
The caretaker at Swan Lake was a black man named Joe Stevens, who lived in a house on the property and had a big family. His women folks did the cooking and housekeeping and, we are fairly certain, whatever farming that was done on the side. Joe had a son, Joe Jr., who would be about Old Stuff's age If yet living. We bought two bales of cotton from young Joe in 1925.
The clubhouse was divided, roughly, three ways. There was a kitchen and dining room on the north side, sleeping quarters (dormitory-style) on the south side, and a living room or assembly-hall in the middle. In this latter was large round poker table, beneath a swinging lamp, and also chests, which served as lockers, for difboots, ammunition, and occasionally a gun or two.
It would still be pitch-black night when old Joe Stevens aroused the hunters, who ate breakfast by lamp light and then made their way to the boats. And we can still hear old Joe's voice, and the chant with which he awakened them
“I know you're tired and sleepy too, I hate to do it, but I got to do. Rise Up!"
B.C.
