ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 163 



and other lonesome places, my " spyglass " 

 rather than my purse the "lust of the 

 eye " rather than the " pride of life " 

 would have been to thank. 



Here, however, there could be no thought 

 of such a contingency. Here were no vaga- 

 bonds (one inoffensive Yankee specimen 

 excepted), but hard- working people going 

 into the city or out again, each on his own 

 lawful business. Scarcely one of them, man 

 or woman, but greeted me kindly. One, a 

 white man on horseback, invited, and even 

 urged me, to mount his horse, and let him 

 walk a piece. I must be fatigued, he was 

 sure, how could I help it ? and he 

 would as soon walk as not. Finding me 

 obstinate, he walked his horse at my side, 

 chatting about the country, the trees, and 

 the crops. He it was who called my partic- 

 ular attention to the abundance of black- 

 berry vines. " Are the berries sweet ? " I 

 asked. He smacked his lips. "Sweet as 

 honey, and big as that," measuring off a 

 liberal portion of his thumb. I spoke of 

 them half an hour later to a middle-aged 

 colored man. Yes, he said, the blackberries 

 were plenty enough and sweet enough ; but, 



