116 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 
jewel of an eye. And there, on the rustic 
arbor, is a third one, matching the un- 
painted wood in hue. Its throat is white, 
but when it is inflated, as happens every 
few seconds, it turns to the loveliest rose 
color. This inflated membrane should be 
a vocal sac, I think, but I hear no sound. 
Perhaps the chameleon’s voice is too fine for 
dull human sense. 
On two sides of me, beyond the orange- 
trees, is a thicket of small oaks and cab- 
bage palmettos, — hammock, I suppose it 
is called. In all other directions are the 
pine-woods, with their undergrowth of saw 
palmetto. The cardinal sings from the 
hammock, and so does the Carolina wren. 
The chewinks, the blackbirds (a grackle just 
now flies over, and a fish-hawk, also), with 
the bluebirds and the pine warblers, are in 
the pinery. From the same place comes 
the song of a Maryland yellow- throat. 
There, too, the hen-hawks are screaming. 
At my feet are blue violets and white 
houstonia. Vines, thinly covered with fresh 
leaves, straggle over the walls, — Virginia 
creeper, poison ivy, grapevine, and at least 
one other, the name of which I do not know. 
