THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 117 



A clump of tall blackberry vines is full of 

 white blossoms, " bramble roses faint and 

 pale," and in one corner is a tuft of scarlet 

 blooms, sage, perhaps, or something akin 

 to it. For the moment I feel no curiosity. 

 But withal the place is unkempt, as be- 

 comes a ruin. " Winter's ragged hand " 

 has been rather heavy upon it. Withered 

 palmetto leaves and leaf-stalks litter the 

 ground, and of course, being in Florida, 

 there is no lack of orange-peel lying about. 

 Ever since I entered the State a new Scrip- 

 ture text has been running in my head : In 

 the place where the orange-peel falleth, 

 there shall it lie. 



The mill, as I said, is now the centre of 

 an orange grove. There must be hundreds 

 of trees. All of them are small, but the 

 greater part are already dead, and the rest 

 are dying. Those nearest the walls are 

 fullest of leaves, as if the walls somehow 

 gave them protection. The forest is creep- 

 ing into the inclosure. Here and there the 

 graceful palm-like tassel of a young long- 

 leaved pine rises above the tall winter-killed 

 grass. It is not the worst thing about the 

 world that it tends to run wild. 



