FLORIDA AND THE WEST INDIES 179 



Nature alike drift through existence in unbroken 

 playtime. 



" May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights — 

 Gone are they, but I have them in my soul." 



Such is the Florida of my dreams, its flowery 

 bushes alive with the music of mocking-birds, its 

 gleaming waters ever breaking with the splash of 

 leaping fish. Key West, with its cigars and 

 sponges and pushful commercialism, and tourists 

 shouting "to beat the band," is fatal to the spirit 

 of the holiday mood. 



