THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 115 



caw, caw in a meditative voice, as if he, too, 

 were thinking of days past ; and not even 

 the scream of a hen-hawk, off in the pine- 

 woods, breaks the spell that is upon us. A 

 quail whistles, a true Yankee Bob White, 

 to judge him by his voice, and the white- 

 eyed chewiuk (he is not a Yankee) whistles 

 and sings by turns. The bluebird's warble 

 and the pine warbler's trill could never be 

 disturbing to the quietest mood. Only one 

 voice seems out of tune : the white-eyed 

 vireo, even to-day, cannot forget his saucy 

 accent. But he soon falls silent. Perhaps, 

 after all, he feels himself an intruder. 



The morning is cloudless and warm, till 

 suddenly, as if a door had been opened east- 

 ward, the sea breeze strikes me. Hence- 

 forth the temperature is perfect as I sit in 

 the shadow. I think neither of heat nor of 

 cold. I catch a glimpse of a beautiful leaf- 

 green lizard on the gray trunk of an orange- 

 tree, but it is gone (I wonder where) almost 

 before I can say I saw it. Presently a 

 brown one, with light-colored stripes and a 

 bluish tail, is seen traveling over the crum- 

 bling wall, running into crannies and out 

 again. Now it stops to look at me with its 



