THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



Summer is the time to visit Collier. When 

 the little mailboat lands me with my family at 

 the dock, Captain Bill meets me with: 



"Well, how are you? The hotel isn't open, you 

 know." 



"Glad of it. That's why I am here. Where's 

 that baggage truck?" 



Then I wheel our baggage to the hotel, we 

 select the choice rooms, and spread our belong- 

 ings all over the place as if we owned the whole 

 business. When the dinner bell rings we sit 

 down with the family and occasional tramps like 

 ourselves who stop in on their way down the 

 coast. Instead of the colorless crowd of tourists 

 who occupy the tables when the hotel is open, we 

 meet itinerant preachers and teachers, lighthouse 

 keepers and land seekers, scientists and Semi- 

 noles. Best behaved of the lot are the Indians, 

 for they sit quietly, saying nothing, while their 

 eyes take in everything, and they touch neither 

 knife, fork, nor spoon till they have seen how 

 others handle them. 



We take possession of the island and wander- 

 ing forth with big baskets return laden with a 

 score of varieties of fruits from avocado pears, 



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