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“No. Truly.”

“I’m so glad. Now will we be jolly?”

“Sure we will. Look,” he said. “There are the birds. The first of them.”

They showed white in the cypress hammock that rose like an island of trees out of the swamp on their left the sun shining on them in the dark foliage and as the sun lowered more came flying across the sky, flying white and slow, their long legs stretched behind them.

“They’re coming in for the night. They’ve been feeding out in the marsh. Watch the way they brake with their wings and the long legs slant forward to land.”

“Will we see the ibises too?”

“There they are.”

He had stopped the car and across the darkening swamp they could see the wood ibis crossing the sky with their pulsing flight to wheel and light in another island of trees.

“They used to roost much closer.”

“Maybe we will see them in the morning,” she said. “Do you want me to make a drink while we’ve stopped?”

“We can make it while we drive. The mosquitoes will get to us here.”

As he started the car there were a few mosquitoes in it, the big black Everglades type, but the rush of the wind took them out when he opened the door and slapped them out with his hand and the girl found two enameled cups in the packages they had brought and the carton that held a bottle of White Horse. She wiped the cups out with a paper napkin, poured in Scotch, the bottle still in the carton, put in lumps of ice from the thermos jug and poured soda into them.

“Here’s to us,” she said and gave him the cold enameled cup and he held it drinking slowly and driving on, holding the wheel with his left hand, driving along into the road that was dusky now. He put on the lights a little later and soon they cut far ahead into the dark and the two of them drank the whisky and it was what they needed and made them feel much better. There is always a chance, Roger thought, when a drink can still do what it is supposed to do. This drink had done exactly what it should do.

“It tastes sort of slimy and slippery in a cup.”

“Enameled,” Roger said.

“That was pretty easy,” she said. “Doesn’t it taste wonderfully?”

“It’s the first drink we’ve had all day. Except that resin wine at lunch. It’s our good friend,” he said. “The old giant killer.”

“That’s a nice name for it. Did you always call it that?”

“Since the war. That’s when we first used it for that.”

“This forest would be a bad place for giants.”

“I think they’ve been killed off a long time,” he said. “They probably hunted them out with those big swamp buggies with the huge tires.”

“That must be very elaborate. It’s easier with an enameled cup.”

“Tin cups make it taste even better,” he said. “Not for giant killing. Just for how good it can be. But you ought to have ice cold spring water and the cup chilled in the spring and you look down in the spring and there are little plumes of sand that rise on the bottom where it’s bubbling.”

“Will we have that?”

“Sure. We’ll have everything. You can make a wonderful one with wild strawberries. If you have a lemon you cut half of it and squeeze it into the cup and leave the rind in the cup. Then you crush the wild strawberries into the cup and wash the sawdust off a piece of ice from the icehouse and put it in and then fill the cup with Scotch and then stir it till it’s all mixed and cold.”

“Don’t you put in any water?”

“No. The ice melts enough and there’s enough juice in the strawberries and from the lemon.”

“Do you think there will still be wild strawberries?”

“I’m sure there will be.”

“Do you think there will be enough to make a shortcake?”

“I’m pretty sure there will be.”

“We better not talk about it. I’m getting awfully hungry.”

“We’ll drive about another drink more,” he said. “And then we ought to be there.”

They drove on in the night now with the swamp dark and high on both sides of the road and the good headlights lighting far ahead. The drinks drove the past away the way the headlights cut through the dark and Roger said.

“Daughter, I’ll take another if you want to make it.”

When she had made it she