ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN’S. 125 
plenty of idle time upon their hands. On 
the other side of the city were orange groves, 
large, well kept, thrifty looking; the fruit 
still on the trees (March 20, or thereabouts), 
or lying in heaps underneath, ready for the 
boxes. One man’s house, I remember, was 
surrounded by a fence overrun with Chero- 
kee rosebushes, a full quarter of a mile of 
white blossoms. 
My best botanical stroll was along one of 
the railroads (Sanford is a “railway cen- 
tre,’ so called), through a dreary sand 
waste. Here I picked a goodly number of 
novelties, including what looked like a 
beautiful pink chicory, only the plant itself 
was much prettier (Lygodesmia); a very 
curious sensitive-leaved plant (Schrankia), 
densely beset throughout with curved 
prickles, and bearing globes of tiny pink- 
purple flowers; a calopogon, quite as pretty 
as our Northern pulchellus; a clematis 
(Baldwinii), which looked more like a 
bluebell than a clematis till I commenced 
pulling it to pieces; and a great profusion 
of one of the smaller papaws, or custard- 
apples, a low shrub, just then full of large, 
odd -shaped, creamy - white, heavy - scented 
