ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 177 



the mocking-bird would be singing, and the 

 redbird whistling. On the western slope, 

 just below the oatfield, the Northern woman 

 who owned the pretty cottage there (the 

 only one on the road) was sure to be at work 

 among her flowers. A laughing colored boy 

 who did chores for her (without injury to his 

 health, I could warrant) told me that she was 

 a Northerner. But I knew it already; I 

 needed no witness but her beds of petunias. 

 In the valley, as I crossed the railroad track, 

 a loggerhead shrike sat, almost of course, on 

 the telegraph wire in dignified silence ; and 

 just beyond, among the cabins, I had my 

 choice of mocking-birds and orchard orioles. 

 And so, admiring the roses and the pome- 

 granates, the lantanas and the honeysuckles, 

 or chatting with some dusky fellow-pilgrim, 

 I mounted the hill to the city, and likely as 

 not saw before me a red-headed woodpecker 

 sitting on the roof of the State House, calling 

 attention to his patriotic self in his tri- 

 colored dress by occasional vigorous tat- 

 toos on the tinned ridgepole. I never saw 

 him there without gladness. The legislature 

 had begun its session in an economical 

 mood, as is more or less the habit of legis- 



