A COTTON PLANTATION. 185 
quibbles apart, one thing I do remember: I 
sat for some time on the fence, in the shade 
of a tree, with an eye upon the cane-swamp 
and an ear open for bird-voices. Yes, and 
it comes to me at this moment that here I 
heard the first and only bull-frog that I heard 
anywhere in Florida. It was like a voice 
from home, and belonged’ with the fence. 
_ Other frogs I had heard in other places. 
One chorus brought me out of bed in Day- 
tona —in the evening — after a succession 
of February dog-day showers. ‘‘ What is 
that noise outside?” I inquired of the land- 
lady as I hastened downstairs. “That?” 
said she, with a look of amusement; “ that’s 
frogs.” “It may be,” I thought, but I 
followed the sounds till they led me in the 
darkness to the edgeofa swamp. No doubt 
the creatures were frogs, but of some kind 
new to me, with voices more lugubrious 
and homesick than I should have supposed 
could possibly belong to any batrachian. A 
week or two later, in the New Smyrna flat- 
woods, I heard in the distance a sound which 
I took for the grunting of pigs. I made 
a note of it, mentally, as a cheerful token, 
indicative of a probable scarcity of rattle- 
