120 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 



They were like the country itself, I was 

 ready to say. But perhaps I misjudged 

 both, seeing both, as I did, in the winter 

 season. With the mercury at 80, or there- 

 about, it is hard for the Northern tourist 

 to remember that he is looking at a winter 

 landscape. He compares a Florida winter 

 with a New England summer, and can 

 hardly find words to tell you how barren 

 and poverty-stricken the country looks. 



After this I went more than once to the 

 sugar mill. Morning and afternoon I vis- 

 ited it, but somehow I could never renew 

 the joy of my first visit. Moods are not 

 to be had for the asking, nor earned by a 

 walk. The place was still interesting, the 

 birds were there, the sunshine was pleasant, 

 and the sea breeze fanned me. The orange 

 blossoms were still sweet, and the bees still 

 hummed about them; but it was another 

 day, or I was another man. In memory, 

 none the less, all my visits blend in one, 

 and the ruined mill in the dying orchard re- 

 mains one of the bright spots in that strange 

 Southern world which, almost from the mo- 

 ment I left it behind me, began to fade into 

 indistinctness, like the landscape of a dream. 



