IN THE FLAT-WOODS. 31 



parklike, flooded with sunshine, level as a 

 floor. "What heartache," Lanier breaks 

 out, poor exile, dying of consumption, 

 " what heartache ! Ne'er a hill ! " A dreary 

 country to ride through, hour after hour ; an 

 impossible country to live in, but most 

 pleasant for a half-day winter stroll. Not- 

 withstanding I never went far into it, as I 

 have already said, I had always a profound 

 sensation of remoteness; as if I might go 

 on forever, and be no farther away. 



Yet even here I had more than one re- 

 minder that the world is a small place. I 

 met a burly negro in a cart, and fell into 

 talk with him about the Florida climate, an 

 endless topic, out of which a cynical traveler 

 may easily extract almost endless amuse- 

 ment. How about the summers here? I 

 inquired. Were they really as paradisaical 

 (I did not use that word) as some reports 

 would lead one to suppose ? The man smiled, 

 as if he had heard something like that before. 

 He did not think the Florida summer a dream 

 of delight, even on the east coast. " I 'm 

 tellin' you the truth, sah ; the mosquiters an' 

 sandflies is awf ul." Was he born here ? I 

 asked. No; he came from B , Ala- 



