Summary
Short story
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The alligator that hated swamps.
When the worst drought anybody could remember stretched on and on, things got tough in the swamp. Especially for Georgie. Georgie had not liked the swamp in the best of weather; it was too wet, too dank, too eerie. He much preferred Lexington Avenue and 88th Street, New York City, where he had spent his happiest hours, even though dear old Mother Nature officially decreed that alligators were never happy outside a swamp.
Georgie had finally given up arguing the point that dear old Mother Nature had rocks in her head. "So I'm happy," he used to say gloomily, lying on a mudbank surrounded by mangroves and miccasins and such. "It's right there in the book." He said this to himself, as he said most things. Georgie was not popular in the swamp; in fact, the other members of the colony that inhabited this stretch of muck and quicksand, black water and scum, had banished him to the very fringe of the community. When he had first arrived they had been wary enough; after Georgie had sounded off they had labeled him a radical, at best, and more probably a pathological liar. "Morons," Georgie would sniff. "Yokels." But he was lonesome. Even if Alice had not treated him as she had he would have been miserable as an outcast, because Georgie was basically a gregarious kid who needed friendly company...See the full content of this document
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