CHAPTER XXVIII. 



LIFE IN THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 



" The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 

 And on its outer point, some miles away 

 The Light-house lifts its massive masonry, 

 A pillar of fire by night, a cloud by day. 



" The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 

 Smites it with all the scourges of the rain ; 

 And steadily against its solid form 

 Press the great shoulders of the hurricane." 



Far to the southward of what has been the scene of our story, 

 forming one of the barriers between the coquina-fringed coast of 

 Florida and the Atlantic, lies Key Biscayne. Southward still, 

 innumerable little islands of white shell show their backs above 

 the tide, and then Key Largo, Indian Key, and Key West, sweep 

 in a curve around the point of the continent, warding off with 

 their coral arms the blows of the angry Atlantic, and the soft 

 allurements of the Gulf Stream. To the westward on the main- 

 land stretches from ocean to gulf the labyrinth of the everglades. 



There were no permanent settlers in this country at this time, 

 though at Key West was congregated a reckless company of men 

 whose boats found shelter from the storms among the islands, and 

 who gained a livelihood from the shipwrecked vessels that 

 monthly dashed to pieces on the coast. Most of them were 

 desperate men without families, only cultivating the soil to plant 

 cocoa and plantain trees, and relying upon the sea for the supply 

 of the rest of their wants. Their low craft could be seen among 

 the innumerable reefs at the beginning of every storm, like sea- 

 gulls foreboding the tempest, and hovering for its waifs. 



In the interior of the peninsula the Indian still remained 



