So I sat dreaming, when suddenly there was a stir in the grass at my feet.  A snake was coming straight toward me.  Only the evening before a cracker had filled my ears with stories of “rattlers” and “moccasins.”  He seemed to have seen them everywhere, and to have killed them as one kills mosquitoes.  I looked a second time at the moving thing in the grass.  It was clothed in innocent black; but, being a son of Adam, I rose with involuntary politeness to let it pass.  An instant more, and it slipped into the masonry at my side, and I sat down again.  It had been out taking the sun, and had come back to its hole in the wall.  How like the story of my own day,—­of my whole winter vacation!  Nay, if we choose to view it so, how like the story of human life itself!

As I started homeward, leaving the mill and the cabin behind me, some cattle were feeding in the grassy road.  At sight of my umbrella (there are few places where a sunshade is more welcome than in a Florida pine-wood) they scampered away into the scrub.  Poor, wild-eyed, hungry-looking things!  I thought of Pharaoh’s lean kine.  They were like the country itself, I was ready to say.  But perhaps I misjudged both, seeing both, as I did, in the winter season.  With the mercury at 80 deg., or thereabout, it is hard for the Northern tourist to remember that he is looking at a winter landscape.  He compares a Florida winter with a New England summer, and can hardly find words to tell you how barren and poverty-stricken the country looks.

After this I went more than once to the sugar mill.  Morning and afternoon I visited it, but somehow I could never renew the joy of my first visit.  Moods are not to be had for the asking, nor earned by a walk.  The place was still interesting, the birds were there, the sunshine was pleasant, and the sea breeze fanned me.  The orange blossoms were still sweet, and the bees still hummed about them; but it was another day, or I was another man.  In memory, none the less, all my visits blend in one, and the ruined mill in the dying orchard remains one of the bright spots in that strange Southern world which, almost from the moment I left it behind me, began to fade into indistinctness, like the landscape of a dream.

ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN’S.

The city of Sanford is a beautiful and interesting place, I hope, to those who live in it.  To the Florida tourist it is important as lying at the head of steamboat navigation on the St. John’s River, which here expands into a lake—­Lake Monroe—­some five miles in width, with Sanford on one side, and Enterprise on the other; or, as a waggish traveler once expressed it, with Enterprise on the north, and Sanford and enterprise on the south.