ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 163 
and other lonesome places, my “spyglass ” 
rather than my purse—the “lust of the 
eye” rather than the “pride of life” — 
would have been to thank. 
Here, however, there could be no thought 
of such a contingency. Here were no vaga- 
bonds (one inoffensive Yankee specimen 
excepted), but hard-working people going 
into the city or out again, each on his own 
lawful business. Scarcely one of them, man 
or woman, but greeted me kindly. One, a 
white man on horseback, invited, and even 
urged me, to mount his horse, and let him 
walk a piece. I must be fatigued, he was 
sure,—how could I help it?—and he 
would as soon walk as not. Finding me 
obstinate, he walked his horse at my side, 
chatting about the country, the trees, and 
the crops. He it was who called my partic- 
ular attention to the abundance of black- 
berry vines. “Are the berries sweet?” I 
asked. He smacked his lips. “Sweet as 
honey, and big as that,” measuring off a 
liberal portion of his thumb. I spoke of 
them half an hour later to a middle-aged 
colored man. Yes, he said, the blackberries 
were plenty enough and sweet enough; but, 
