THE OLD SUGAR MILL. Thy 
A clump of tall blackberry vines is full of 
white blossums, “ bramble roses faint and 
pale,” and in one corner is a tuft of scarlet 
blooms, — sage, perhaps, or something akin 
to it. For the moment I feel no curiosity. 
But withal the place is unkempt, as be- 
comes a ruin. “ Winter’s ragged hand” 
has been rather heavy upon it. Withered 
palmetto leaves and leaf-stalks litter the 
ground, and of course, being in Florida, 
there is no lack of orange-peel lying about. 
Ever since I entered the State a new Scrip- 
ture text has been running in my head: In 
the place where the orange-peel falleth, 
there shall it lie. 
The mill, as I said, is now the centre of 
an orange grove. There must be hundreds 
of trees. All of them are small, but the 
greater part are already dead, and the rest 
are dying. Those nearest the walls are 
fullest of leaves, as if the walls somehow 
gave them protection. The forest is creep- 
ing into the inclosure. Here and there the 
graceful palm-like tassel of a young long- 
leaved pine rises above the tall winter-killed 
grass. It is not the worst thing about the 
world that it tends to run wild. 
