THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 115 
caw, caw in a meditative voice, as if he, too, 
were thinking of days past; and not even 
the scream of a hen-hawk, off in the pine- 
woods, breaks the spell that is upon us. A 
quail whistles, — atrue Yankee Bob White, 
to judge him by his voice, — and the white- 
eyed chewink (he is not a Yankee) whistles 
and sings by turns. The bluebird’s warble 
and the pine warbler’s trill could never be 
disturbing to the quietest mood. Only one 
voice seems out of tune: the white-eyed 
vireo, even to-day, cannot forget his saucy 
accent. But he soon falls silent. Perhaps, 
after all, he feels himself an intruder. 
The morning is cloudless and warm, till 
suddenly, as if a door had been opened east- 
ward, the sea breeze strikes me. Hence- 
forth the temperature is perfect as I sit in 
the shadow. I think neither of heat nor of 
cold. JI catch a glimpse of a beautiful leaf- 
green lizard on the gray trunk of an orange- 
tree, but it is gone (1 wonder where) almost 
before I can say I saw it. Presently a 
brown one, with light-colored stripes and a 
bluish tail, is seen traveling over the crum- 
bling wall, running into crannies and out 
again. Now it stops to look at me with its 
