ALONG THE HILLSBOROUGH. 91 
identity,! I turned about and protested that 
I had never seen red cedars before. One, 
in St. Augustine, near San Marco Avenue, 
I had the curiosity to measure. The girth 
of the trunk at the smallest place was six 
feet five inches, and the spread of the 
branches was not less than fifty feet. 
The stroller in this road suffered few dis- 
tractions. The houses, two or three to the 
mile, stood well back in the woods, with 
little or no cleared land about them. Picnic 
establishments they seemed to a Northern 
eye, rather than permanent dwellings. At 
one point in the hammock, a rude camp was 
occupied by a group of rough-looking men 
and several small children, who seemed to 
be getting on as best they could — none too 
well, to judge from appearances — without 
1 I speak as if I had accepted my own study of the 
manual as conclusive. I did for the time being, but 
while writing this paragraph I bethought myself that 
I might be in error, after all. I referred the question, 
therefore, to a friend, a botanist of authority. ‘* No won- 
der the red cedars of Florida puzzled you,’’ he replied. 
‘““No one would suppose at first that they were of the 
same species as our New England sayins. The habit is 
entirely different ; but botanists have found no characters 
by which to separate them, and you are safe in consider- 
ing them as Juniperus Virginiana.” 
