ALONG THE HILLSBOROUGH. 83 
to Massachusetts, and then almost by acci- 
dent, that I learned what they were. They, 
it turned out, were ferns ( Vittaria lineata 
—egrass fern), and my discomfiture was 
complete. 
This comparative dearth of birds and flow- 
ers was not in all respects a disadvantage. 
On the contrary, to a naturalist blessed now 
and then with a supernaturalistic mood, it 
made the place, on occasion, a welcome re- 
treat. Thus, one afternoon, as I remember, 
I had been reading Keats, the only book I 
had brought with me, — not counting man- 
uals, of course, which come under another 
head, — and by and by started once more 
for the pine lands by the way of the cotton- 
shed hammock, “to see what I could see.” 
But poetry had spoiled me just then for 
anything like scientific research, and as I 
waded through the ankle-deep sand I said 
to myself all at once, “No, no! What do 
I care for another new bird? I want to 
see the beauty of the world.” With that I 
faced about, and, taking a side track, made 
as directly as possible for the river road. 
There I should have a mind at ease, with no 
unfamiliar, tantalizing bird note to set my 
