146 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



wagon driven by an ebony negro known as Black 

 Tom, who professed to have a thorough knowl- 

 edge of the route to our destination. This was 

 encouraging, as I was not at all sure where it 

 might be. This wagon was loaded with trunks 

 and army chests, a portable canvas boat, and tents. 

 The second vehicle of the cavalcade, also devoted 

 to baggage, was driven by another negro, dis- 

 tinguished from the pioneer driver as Yellow 

 Tom, his color rendering that name fitting. The 

 passengers brought up the rear, our driver, a 

 negro boy, rejoicing in the name of Amaziah. 



Black Tom, Yellow Tom, and Amaziah, for 

 the next three or four days were words much in 

 our mouths, and came to be part of the house- 

 hold vocabulary. The whole thing impressed 

 these darkies as the greatest possible frolic next to 

 a circus, and it would be interesting psychologi- 

 cally to know more in detail their understanding 

 of the affair. Presumably they believed us all 

 to be millionnaires who did not know what 

 to do with our money, and who were out for a 

 good time. Tourists were not common in that 

 part of Florida in those days ; from October until 

 April, when we left the Gulf Coast, we encountered 

 only a single individual besides our own party 

 who might possibly be included in that category. 



The journey across the state to the Gulf can 

 only be touched on. The way led through long 



