FISHING IN A FLOWER BED 



distant beach carried my memory back to the 

 first of the many, many times I had listened to 

 the same sounds from off the same coast. I 

 thought of the companions of a generation ago 

 for whom flowers of asphodel had since been 

 planted, and I looked down upon the sleepers be- 

 side me who were babies then. Only Nature was 

 unchanged. I fancied I could make out the 

 "Piney Woods" that heralded Carlos Pass, en- 

 trance to Estero Bay, where often in later years 

 I had camped and cruised, fished, hunted, and 

 gathered shells with my family. I felt that I 

 owned the place. A roll of the wheel and in a 

 few minutes I would enter my own gateway. 



Then I recalled the Koreshan Unity, whose 

 home is now in the beautiful bay that band of 

 Innocents in the toils of a swindler who poses as 

 a prophet, to whom has been revealed the scien- 

 tific fact that the surface of the earth is concave 

 and forms the interior surface of a great hollow 

 sphere. Everything here is bughouse and I turn 

 away. 



Now come the Hickory passes, Big and 

 Little, while Sanibel Light sinks beneath the 

 horizon. Every foot of the coast here and the 



