increasing wealth of such beauty to the flat-woods. No doubt, too, I
missed the larger half of what might have been found even at the time of
my visit; for I made no pretense of doing any real botanical work,
having neither the time nor the equipment. The birds kept me busy, for
the most part, when the country itself did not absorb my attention.

More interesting, and a thousand times more memorable, than any flower
or bird was the pine barren itself. I have given no true idea of it, I
am perfectly aware: open, parklike, flooded with sunshine, level as a
floor. "What heartache," Lanier breaks out, poor exile, dying of
consumption,--"what heartache! Ne'er a hill!" A dreary country to ride
through, hour after hour; an impossible country to live in, but most
pleasant for a half-day winter stroll. Notwithstanding I never went far
into it, as I have already said, I had always a profound sensation of
remoteness; as if I might go on forever, and be no farther away.

Yet even here I had more than one reminder that the world is a small
place. I met a burly negro in a cart, and fell into talk with him about
the Florida climate, an endless topic, out of which a cynical traveler
may easily extract almost endless amusement. How abput the summers here?
I inquired. Were they really as paradisaical (I did not use that word)
as some reports would lead one to suppose? The man smiled, as if he had
heard something like that before. He did not think the Florida summer a
dream of delight, even on the east coast. "I'm tellin' you the truth,
sah; the mosquiters an' sandflies is awful." Was he born here? I asked.
No; he came from B----, Alabama. Everybody in eastern Florida came from
somewhere, as well as I could make out.

"Oh, from B----," said I. "Did you know Mr. W----, of the ---- Iron
Works?"