Starting from Spanish Fort northeastwardly across Lake Pontchartrain, after the first few miles sailed on already observes
a change in the vegetation of the receding banks. The shore itself sinks, the lowland bristles with rushes and marsh grasses
waving in the wind. A little further on and the water becomes deeply clouded with sap green--the myriad floating seeds of
swamp vegetation. Banks dwindle away into thin lines; the greenish yellow of the reeds changes into misty blue. Then it is
all water and sky, motionless blue and heaving lazulite, until the reedy waste of Point-aux-Herbes thrusts its picturesque
light-house far out into the lake. Above the wilderness of swamp grass and bulrushes this graceful building rises upon an
open-work of wooden piles. Seven miles of absolute desolation separate the light-house keeper from his nearest neighbor. Nevertheless,
there is a good piano there for the girls to play upon, comfortably furnished rooms, a good library. The pet cat has lost
an eye in fighting with a moccasin, and it is prudent before descending from the balcony into the swamp about the house to
reconnoiter for snakes. Still northeast. The sun is sinking about the rushy bank line; the west is crimsoning like iron losing
its white heat. Against the ruddy light a cross is visible. There is a cemetery in the swamp. Those are the forgotten graves
of light-house keepers. our boat is spreading her pinions for flight through the Rigolets, that sinuous waterway leading to
Lake Borgne. Source: Harper's Weekly Journal of Civilization from March 31, 1883: Found this at http://216.239.39.100/search?q=cache:yOeAxkSGneMC:www.filipinohome.com/sections/history/filam/stmalo1.htm+%22point+aux+herbes%22&hl=en&ie=UTF-8
