ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN’S. 189 
ing upward again. Another minute, and I 
saw a second bird, farther away. I watched 
the nearer one till it faded from sight, soar- 
ing and swooping by turns, — its long, scis- 
sors-shaped tail all the while fully spread, — 
but never coming down, as its habit is said 
to be, to skim over the surface of the water. 
There is nothing more beautiful on wings, 
I believe: a large hawk, with a swallow’s 
grace of form, color, and motion. I saw it 
once more (four birds) over the St. Mark’s 
River, and counted the sight one of the chief 
rewards of my Southern winter. 
At noon we rested and ate our luncheon 
in the shade of three or four tall palmetto- 
trees standing by themselves on a broad 
prairie, a place brightened by beds of blue 
iris and stretches of golden senecio, — home- 
like as well as pretty, both of them. Then 
we set out again. The day was intensely 
hot (March 24), and my oarsman was more 
than half sick with a sudden cold. I begged 
him to take things easily, but he soon ex- 
perienced an almost miraculous renewal of 
his forces. In one of the first of our after- 
dinner bonnet patches, he seized his gun, 
fired, and began to shout, “ A purple! a pur- 
