They repeat their hymns several times, and while singing keep perfect time with their hands and feet.

On our way homeward we noticed that a few of the trees were beginning to turn, but we looked in vain for the glowing autumnal hues of our Northern forests.  Some brilliant scarlet berries—­the cassena—­were growing along the roadside, and on every hand we saw the live-oak with its moss-drapery.  The palmettos disappointed me; stiff and ungraceful, they have a bristling, defiant look, suggestive of Rebels starting up and defying everybody.  The land is low and level,—­not the slightest approach to a hill, not a rock, nor even a stone to be seen.  It would have a desolate look, were it not for the trees, and the hanging moss and numberless vines which festoon them.  These vines overrun the hedges, form graceful arches between the trees, encircle their trunks, and sometimes climb to the topmost branches.  In February they begin to bloom, and then throughout the spring and summer we have a succession of beautiful flowers.  First comes the yellow jessamine, with its perfect, gold-colored, and deliciously fragrant blossoms.  It lights up the hedges, and completely canopies some of the trees.  Of all the wild-flowers this seems to me the most beautiful and fragrant.  Then we have the snow-white, but scentless Cherokee rose, with its lovely, shining leaves.  Later in the season come the brilliant trumpet-flower, the passion-flower, and innumerable others.

The Sunday after our arrival we attended service at the Baptist Church.  The people came in slowly; for they have no way of knowing the hour, except by the sun.  By eleven they had all assembled, and the church was well filled.  They were neatly dressed in their Sunday-attire, the women, mostly wearing clean, dark frocks, with white aprons and bright-colored head-handkerchiefs.  Some had attained to the dignity of straw hats with gay feathers, but these were not nearly as becoming nor as picturesque as the handkerchiefs.  The day was warm, and the windows were thrown open as if it were summer, although it was the second day of November.  It was very pleasant to listen to the beautiful hymns, and look from the crowd of dark, earnest faces within, upon the grove of noble oaks without.  The people sang, “Roll, Jordan, roll,” the grandest of all their hymns.  There is a great, rolling wave of sound through it all.

    “Mr. Fuller settin’ on de Tree ob Life,
    Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll. 
    Oh, roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan roll!

    CHORUS.

    “Oh, roll, Jordan, roll! oh, roll, Jordan, roll! 
    My soul arise in heab’n, Lord,
    Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll!

“Little chil’en, learn to fear de Lord, And let your days be long.  Oh, roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan, roll!

    CHORUS.