JOURNAL OF MAINE ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 



longitude of the spot where the re- 

 mark was made for as a veteran 

 hunter and riverman afterwards told 

 us: "Hit's right likely that neither 

 injun or white man ever saw the place 

 before." We named it the Devil's 

 Lagoon and it lies somewhere amid 

 the cane brake prairies of the upper 

 St. Johns River in Southern Florida. 

 The air was not fragrant with Christ- 

 mas cheer at the hour the remark was 

 made for we realized that we were 

 lost, and were sitting, the two of us in 

 a small boat, the gunwales of which 

 were barely four inches out of water, 

 wrapped in our rubber coats and 

 blankets to keep out the penetrating 

 brown-gray fog that hung like a pall 

 about the lagoon. For miles and 

 miles on either hand stretched away 

 the bewildering maze of water waste, 

 rank with the growth of cane brake, 

 mammoth bull -rushes and water grass- 

 es, with now and then a clump of 

 stunted willows, their roots often 

 eight or ten feet below the water sur- 

 face. The only semblance of solidity 

 in all that territory being where every 

 now and then an alligator had wal- 

 lowed down the coarse reeds and 

 formed a "bed" where he could lie 

 and drag out his slothful existence in 

 the sunlight. On one of the 'gator 

 beds the bow of our boat, the "Water 

 Turkey" rested. The witching hour 

 of midnight was drawing near but 

 the night was moonless and would be 

 for hours. Our view embraced only 

 the silhouette like forms of a clump 

 of waiter willows before us, and dimly 

 out lined water paths radiating about 

 us. Mosquitoes delighted and sur- 

 prised to find human blood "on tap" 

 in that locality, "bored" us until we 

 were glad to "bag our heads" in 

 handkerchiefs and amid these sur- 

 roundings and sitting upright, because 

 there wasn't room among our "plun- 

 derments" to stretch out, we fell 

 asleep. We were suddenly awaken- 

 ed but perhaps I am getting ahead 

 of my story for possibly someone may 

 be interested to know how we came to 

 be in such a predicament. We were in 

 Florida that winter for the purpose of 

 collecting Natural History specimens, 

 and especially birds. Nearly three 

 weeks before we had been landed 

 from a little one horse river steamer 

 at the then new town of Sanford on 

 Lake Monroe, two hundred miles 

 above Jacksonville. 



It was our intention to visit the 

 famous Indian River country and 

 though one or two scow-like "wheel- 

 barrow" steamers made spasmodic 

 trips farther up the river, we knew 

 that that kind of traveling and col- 

 lecting wouldnt "jibe." We had 

 hoped here in Sanford to be able to 

 purchase a boat in which to make the 

 trip but we were disappointed in this 

 and set about making one ourselves 

 out of green hard pine, the only lum- 

 ber procurable, and in two days' time 

 the "Water Turkey" was ready for 

 launching. She was a compromise 

 between a scow, a dory and a batteau, 

 the stern and bow rising sharply from 

 the flat bottom, batteau fashion; but 

 as our boards would not permit a 

 greater length than fifteen feet it was 

 made square at each end, thus in- 

 creasing its carrying capacity, and 

 fortunate it was too that it was allow- 

 ed to be as big as possible for when 

 loaded for the trip and we the pass- 

 engers had wedged ourselves in 

 among the chests, boxes, rolls of 

 blankets, tent, bag of sweet potatoes, 

 arsenal of firearms, etc., etc., it was 

 found that the gunwales of the "Wa- 

 ter Turkey but little more than clear- 

 ed smooth water. We had a rude 

 general idea of the route, which we 

 had gleaned from the river residents, 

 though it is wonderful how little use- 

 ful information a Florida "Cracker" 

 can impart. 



In our steamboat trip up the 

 "Lower" St. Johns we had watched 

 the topography of the country closely 

 and though the banks of the river 

 were nowhere high we had always 

 found them well defined and appar- 

 ently affording good camping grounds. 

 Another thing that had impressed us 

 forcibly was the way the river bulg- 

 ed itself into lakes until it resembled 

 nothing more than an irregular string 

 of sausages. We knew that from Salt 

 Lake about seventy-five miles above 

 Sanford there was a road across to 

 Sand Point or Titusville on the In- 

 dian River, a distance of about six 

 miles. We knew too, that is, parties 

 more or less familiar with the route 

 had told us that Woodward's Creek 

 would afford a "cut off " between Lake 

 Monroe and Jessup and in the same 

 way we knew that we had to travel 

 through Mullet Lake, Lake Harney, 

 Mud Lake and Puzzle Lake before 

 reaching Salt Lake, especially Puzzle 



