80 



THE CANADIAN HORTTCULTUKIST. 



passers-by wending their way to church, 

 we found the air balmy as June and 

 sweet with the odor of orange blossoms 

 and yellow jessamine. Wistarias were 

 hanging their purple clusters from many 

 balconies, while spireas and climbing 

 roses wore bridal wreaths of white. 

 The oleanders wex'e just opening their 

 flower buds, and the China trees were 

 almost in bloom. Yet after all, how 

 shall I convey to you the impression 

 which the view down these streets 

 makes upon one accustomed to Cana- 

 dian village scenery ? There is here no 

 bright green lawn neatly shaven, to set 

 off and enhance the beauty of the 

 flowers. The sand, the sand is every- 

 where. Through it some scattered 

 blades of coarse grass are straggling for 

 life. There is also a general lack of 

 tidiness about the yards and dwellings; 

 an absence of that appearance of com- 

 fort and taste which makes our Cana- 

 dian village residences look so home-like 

 and cheery. But for all there is some- 

 thing veiy fascinating, o]i this fourth 

 day of March, in walking beneath these 

 wide spreading trees, and breathing the 

 balmy fragrance laden air, to one, who, 

 at this season has ever been compelled 

 to wraj) his mantle close about him, 

 and then scarce able to keep out the 

 chilling March wind that makes one's 

 very bones to shiver. 



On Monday morning we embarked 

 on one of the steamboats bound i;p the 

 river, our destination being the ancient 

 City of St. Augustine. In this part 

 the St. John's river is bi^oad, but by no 

 means projjortionately deep ; the cur- 

 rent is very sluggish, and tlie water is of 

 the color of strong tea. We were told 

 that when the tide conies in, the salt 

 water from the ocean runs up at the 

 river's V>ottoin in a strong current of sea 

 water running up the stream, while the 

 fresh water of the river runs over it in 

 the opposite direction without evei- 

 mingling. None of us went down to 



test the accuracy of the statement. 

 The scenery as we pass up the river is 

 pleasing, with a cabn, placid beauty. 

 The trees on the river bank are mir- 

 rored in the smooth waters. There 

 are no hills to break the outline of the 

 horizon, nor mountain peaks to give an 

 element of grandeur to the prospect. 

 Numerous small villages on either side 

 of the river give life to the picture ; 

 the white cottages gleaming brightly 

 through the foliage of the evergreen oaks 

 that skirt the broad road that runs by 

 the river side. At one of these villages 

 called Mandarin, about fifteen miles 

 above, and yet south, of Jacksonville, 

 Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, whose 

 name has become familiar to us all as 

 the authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin, 

 has her home. As we steamed past, 

 our attention was directed to a neat 

 residence with a verandah running 

 across the front, and with dormer win- 

 dows in the roof, which stood promi- 

 nently conspicuous from our steamer's 

 deck, as the one in which she lived. 



About eleven o'clock we reach Tocoi, 

 forty-three miles south of Jacksonville, 

 whei'e we leave the steamboat and take 

 the cars for St. Augustine. We looked 

 to find a village here, but saw oidy a 

 small i-ailway station on piles, with a 

 cabin or two npar by to mark the site. 

 The ride by rail to St. Augustine, dis- 

 tance foui-teen miles, is thi-ough as deso- 

 late and forlorn a country as one need 

 ever wish to see. Flat and monotonous 

 indeed, and nearly sterile ; the soil 

 seemingly too poor almost, perhaps 

 quite, to grow white bean.s. But we 

 try to endure it patiently, for the ancient 

 city that we are going to see lies beyond. 

 How often is this repeated in life. The 

 present ill for the future good. The 

 patient endurance now, the expected joy 

 by and l)y. The pathway of life, with 

 its rugged places, its clouds and storms, 

 but it Ifads to the eternal city. The 

 cross now, the ciown vonder. 



