ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 165 
derfoot and the sun overhead, I found the 
six miles, which I spent at least four hours 
in accomplishing, more fatiguing than twice 
that distance would have been over New 
Hampshire hills. If I were to settle in that 
country, I should probably fall into the 
way of riding more, and walking less. I 
remember thinking how comfortable a cer- 
tain ponderous black mammy looked, whom 
I met on one of these same sunny and sandy 
tramps. She sat in the very middle of a 
tipeart, with an old and truly picturesque 
man’s hat on her head (quite in the fashion, 
feminine readers will notice), driving a one- 
horned ox with a pair of clothes-line reins. 
She was traveling slowly, just as I like to 
travel; and, as I say, | was impressed by 
her comfortable appearance. Why would 
not an equipage like that be just the thing 
for a naturalistic idler ? 
Not far beyond my halting-place of two 
days before I came to a Cherokee rosebush, 
one of the most beautiful of plants, — white, 
fragrant, single roses (veal roses) set in the 
midst of the handsomest of glossy green 
leaves. I was delighted to find it still in 
flower. A hundred miles farther south I 
