Here let me advise readers to call to memory Nathaniel Parker Willis's
poem, "The Declaration" beginning--
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room,
and ending:
She had been asleep.
The crocodile moved not as we, thirsting for its blood, stealthily
approached. Then as I raised the rifle "Paddy" tilted up his
much-flattened nose, sniffed, and in tragic whisper said--"Dead!"
At all times a crocodile has a characteristic odour, a combination of
fish and very sour and stale musk, but Paddy smelt more than the
familiar scent--the scent of carrion.
Most unworthy of mortals, we had found the rarest of unprecious
things--a crocodile that had died a natural death. Apparently a day, or
at the most a day and a half, had elapsed since the creature had laid
its head under the shadow of the boulder and died, far from accustomed
haunts and kin. There was no sign of wound, bruise or putrefying sore.
All the teeth were perfect. It seemed like a crocodile taking its rest,
with its awful stench around it.
With poles we levered the body out of the way of the tide. Months after,
when Nature had done her part in the removal of all fleshy taint, we
returned for the bones.
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