FAIK ORMOND 



AFTER nearly two months in the extreme south 

 of Florida I have turned my face northward, and 

 here I am at Ormond, fair Ormond-on-the-Hali- 

 fax. No more bewildering jungles of nameless 

 West Indian trees and climbers, no more cocoa- 

 nut palms, no more acres of wild morning-glory 

 vines. It gave me a start of pleasurable surprise 

 when, somewhere on this side of Palm Beach, I 

 do not remember where, I saw from the car win- 

 dow a stately sweet-gum tree all freshly green. It 

 had not occurred to me till then that I had found 

 nothing at Miami of this handsome and charac- 

 teristic Southerner, always one of my favorites. 



Indeed, I have come to a different world. I 

 am no longer in a foreign country. Here are 

 lordly magnolias, not yet in blossom, to be sure, 

 but proudly beautiful in the leaf. Here, too, are 

 Cherokee roses, loveliest of all flowers, just coming 

 into their kingdom. At sight of the first glossy- 

 leaved bush, which happened to stand near a 

 house, I made up to the door, not stopping twice 

 to consider, and asked the privilege of picking a 

 flower and a bud. The householder was generous, 



