FAIR ORMOND 137 



and the bush even more so. " Take another, and 

 another," it seemed to say, catching me again 

 and again by the sleeve ; " I have enough and 

 to spare." It was hard work for me to get away. 

 Here, also, is the yellow jessamine, only less 

 beautiful than the rose, hanging the tall forest 

 trees full of golden, fragrant bells. And here, 

 sprinkled along the wayside, are stores of blue 

 violets. None of these things are to be seen on 

 the shores of Biscayne Bay. Yes, I am glad to 

 be here. 



And the phlox, likewise, the pretty Drum- 

 mond's phlox of our Northern gardens, dear to 

 me of old, let me not forget that. It is not in- 

 digenous to the country, I suppose, but, like the 

 garden verbena, being here it makes itself most 

 comfortably at home, delighting to overrun for- 

 saken orange groves and similar unoccupied waste 

 places. How sweetly it looks up at us with its 

 innocent child's face ! Just now one of the guests 

 of the hotel came in with a broad market-basket 

 loaded with it, a good half-bushel, at the very 

 least. " I have counted twenty-six varieties," he 

 said (he was thinking of diversities of color), 

 and there must be somewhere near that number 

 in the crowded vase that he has sent down to 

 brighten my writing-table. 



Here, too, is the Atlantic beach. In ten min- 



