ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 165 



derfoot and the sun overhead, I found the 

 six miles, which I spent at least four hours 

 in accomplishing, more fatiguing than twice 

 that distance would have been over New 

 Hampshire hills. If I were to settle in that 

 country, I should probably fall into the 

 way of riding more, and walking less. I 

 remember thinking how comfortable a cer- 

 tain ponderous black mammy looked, whom 

 I met on one of these same sunny and sandy 

 tramps. She sat in the very middle of a 

 ti peart, with an old and truly picturesque 

 man's hat on her head (quite in the fashion, 

 feminine readers will notice), driving a one- 

 horned ox with a pair of clothes-line reins. 

 She was traveling slowly, just as I like to 

 travel; and, as I say, I was impressed by 

 her comfortable appearance. Why would 

 not an equipage like that be just the thing 

 for a naturalistic idler? 



Not far beyond my halting-place of two 

 days before I came to a Cherokee rosebush, 

 one of the most beautiful of plants, white, 

 fragrant, single roses (^real roses) set in the 

 midst of the handsomest of glossy green 

 leaves. I was delighted to find it still in 

 flower. A hundred miles farther south I 



