THE WOODS AND SWAMPS.

 "There was no motion in the dumb, dead air,
 Not any song of bird or sound of rill.
 ... Growths of jessamine turned
 Their humid arms, festooning tree to tree;
 And at the root through lush green grasses burned
 The red anemone."


A FTER wandering for a day on the pine
 barrens, the traveller comes back into
golden calm when the river is reached once
more. It is peace to lie under a live-oak and
slip into a pleasant dream, watching all the
while the yellow flood of the St. John's.
 This great volume of water rolls so slowly
that one does not realize how continually it is
carving out and bearing away the yielding
shore. It thrusts its inlets far back into the
woods or swamps, so that, like the features of
a living face, the river is constantly changing;
the more so, because its grave, deliberate cut-