The next morning I took the steamer down the river to Blue Spring, a distance of some thirty miles, on my way back to New Smyrna, to a place where there were accessible woods, a beach, and, not least, a daily sea breeze.  The river in that part of its course is comfortably narrow,—­a great advantage,—­winding through cypress swamps, hammock woods, stretches of prairie, and in one place a pine barren; an interesting and in many ways beautiful country, but so unwholesome looking as to lose much of its attractiveness.  Three or four large alligators lay sunning themselves in the most obliging manner upon the banks, here one and there one, to the vociferous delight of the passengers, who ran from one side of the deck to the other, as the captain shouted and pointed.  One, he told us, was thirteen feet long, the largest in the river.  Each appeared to have its own well-worn sunning-spot, and all, I believe, kept their places, as if the passing of the big steamer—­almost too big for the river at some of the sharper turns—­had come to seem a commonplace event.  Herons in the usual variety were present, with ospreys, an eagle, kingfishers, ground doves, Carolina doves, blackbirds (red-wings and boat-tails), tree swallows, purple martins, and a single wild turkey, the first one I had ever seen.  It was near the bank of the river, on a bushy prairie, fully exposed, and crouched as the steamer passed.  For a Massachusetts ornithologist the mere sight of such a bird was enough to make a pretty good Thanksgiving Day.  Blue yellow-backed warblers were singing here and there, and I retain a particular remembrance of one bluebird that warbled to us from the pine-woods.  The captain told me, somewhat to my surprise, that he had seen two flocks of paroquets during the winter (they had been very abundant along the river within his time, he said), but for me there was no such fortune.  One bird, soaring in company with a buzzard at a most extraordinary height straight over the river, greatly excited my curiosity.  The captain declared that it must be a great blue heron; but he had never seen one thus engaged, nor, so far as I can learn, has any one else ever done so.  Its upper parts seemed to be mostly white, and I can only surmise that it may have been a sandhill crane, a bird which is said to have such a habit.

As I left the boat I had a little experience of the seamy side of Southern travel; nothing to be angry about, perhaps, but annoying, nevertheless, on a hot day.  I surrendered my check to the purser of the boat, and the deck hands put my trunk upon the landing at Blue Spring.  But there was no one there to receive it, and the station was locked.  We had missed the noon train, with which we were advertised to connect, by so many hours that I had ceased to think about it.  Finally, a negro, one of several who were fishing thereabouts, advised me to go “up to the house,” which he pointed out behind some woods, and see the agent.  This I did, and the