IN THE FLAT-WOODS. 31 
parklike, flooded with sunshine, level as a 
floor. ‘ What heartache,’ Lanier breaks 
out, poor exile, dying of consumption, — 
“what heartache! Ne’era hill!” <A dreary 
country to ride through, hour after hour ; an 
impossible country to live in, but most 
pleasant for a half-day winter stroll. Not- 
withstanding I never went far into it, as I 
have already said, I had always a profound 
sensation of remoteness; as if I might go 
on forever, and be no farther away. 
Yet even here I had more than one re- 
minder that the world is a small place. I 
met a burly negro in a cart, and fell into 
talk with him about the Florida climate, an 
endless topic, out of which a cynical traveler 
may easily extract almost endless amuse- 
ment. How about the summers here? I 
inquired. Were they really as paradisaical 
(1 did not use that word) as some reports 
would lead one to suppose? The man smiled, 
as if he had heard something like that before. 
He did not think the Florida summer a dream 
of delight, even on the east coast. “I’m 
tellin’ you the truth, sah ; the mosquiters an’ 
sandflies is awful.” Was he born here? I 
asked. No; he came from B , Ala- 
