A LOST FEBRUARY 



Minho, a very beautiful stream. A colored boy of 

 twelve, with a singularly sweet face, joined us, and 

 clung closely to me, — a real little comrade. Finally 

 he said: "I like you, it does not tire me to walk 

 with you. When we hkes a man, it is fun ; " again, 

 " When we has pleasant company, it makes the way 

 seem short." Later he confessed: "I do love you, 

 and your son, too. When I love a man, I cannot 

 always tell him, but I can teU you." He said he 

 would write me a letter, so I wrote my name and 

 address on a dry bamboo leaf for him. He was a 

 winsome lad, and I shall not soon forget him. 



What does one see as he passes along the road in 

 the interior of Jamaica ? He sees a superb highway, 

 round and smooth and winding, leading on in front 

 of him, and on either hand bushes and trees and 

 woods; never an open, smooth, cleared field as at 

 home; at best, open glades and long vistas through 

 the groves of logwood and cottonwood. The log- 

 wood groves suggest orchards, — low, branching 

 trees, with curious fluted or beaded trunks and 

 smooth, yellowish, mottled bark, — each tree sug- 

 gesting a bundle of small columns welded together. 

 The effect was very novel and pretty. The cotton- 

 woods are wide-branching, sturdy-looking trees, 

 like our oaks. Few signs of agriculture as we know 

 it at home are visible; the wattled bamboo huts of 

 the negroes here and there in the bush are sur- 

 rounded by a few banana or breadfruit or orange 

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