116 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 



jewel of an eye. And there, on the rustic 

 arbor, is a third one, matching the un- 

 painted wood in hue. Its throat is white, 

 but when it is inflated, as happens every 

 few seconds, it turns to the loveliest rose 

 color. This inflated membrane should be 

 a vocal sac, I think, but I hear no sound. 

 Perhaps the chameleon's voice is too fine for 

 dull human sense. 



On two sides of me, beyond the orange- 

 trees, is a thicket of small oaks and cab- 

 bage palmettos, hammock, I suppose it 

 is called. In all other directions are the 

 pine-woods, with their undergrowth of saw 

 palmetto. The cardinal sings from the 

 hammock, and so does the Carolina wren. 

 The che winks, the blackbirds (a grackle just 

 now flies over, and a fish-hawk, also), with 

 the bluebirds and the pine warblers, are in 

 the pinery. From the same place comes 

 the song of a Maryland yellow - throat. 

 There, too, the hen-hawks are screaming. 



At my feet are blue violets and white 

 houstonia. Vines, thinly covered with fresh 

 leaves, straggle over the walls, Virginia 

 creeper, poison ivy, grapevine, and at least 

 one other, the name of which I do not know. 



