ON THE ST. AUGUSTINE ROAD. 177 
the mocking-bird would be singing, and the 
redbird whistling. On the western slope, 
just below the oatfield, the Northern woman 
who owned the pretty cottage there (the 
only one on the road) was sure to be at work 
among her flowers. A laughing colored boy 
who did chores for her (without injury to his 
health, I could warrant) told me that she was 
a Northerner. But I knew it already; I 
needed no witness but her beds of petunias. 
In the valley, as I crossed the railroad track, 
a loggerhead shrike sat, almost of course, on 
the telegraph wire in dignified silence; and 
just beyond, among the cabins, I had my 
choice of mocking-birds and orchard orioles. 
And so, admiring the roses and the pome- 
granates, the lantanas and the honeysuckles, 
or chatting with some dusky fellow-pilgrim, 
I mounted the hill to the city, and likely as 
not saw before me a red-headed woodpecker 
sitting on the roof of the State House, calling 
attention to his patriotic self —in his tri- 
colored dress — by occasional vigorous tat- 
toos on the tinned ridgepole. I never saw 
him there without gladness. The legislature 
had begun its session in an economical 
mood, — as is more or less the habit of legis- 
